The First of Twelve

CLEVELAND [November 2, 2005] -- Andrew was a junior high school bully. He terrorized the lunchroom and none but a handful of large, male teachers dared challenge him. His story might be commonplace now, but in the mid 60’s Andrew was more than an annoying exception to an otherwise stable learning environment; he was a canary in the mine. He was also the first of the Twelve.

In the last contribution to A Personal Note, the essay – described as poignant, convoluted, brilliant and overexposed by caring readers – the topic of a close relationship with deadly violence was raised. It was mentioned then that this observer has come in hot proximity to twelve occasions of knowing the killer or the killed. The challenge was brought that such a number was an exaggeration: reasonable enough. Grow up in the city, nearly any city, be black and sober enough to maintain awareness of your surroundings and you’ll know twice as many mostly men, mostly young men who have become a line item in ViCap, or whose lives ended in a blaze of gunfire.

Andrew was number one, as near as memory will allow.

After stalking the hallways of FDR Jr. High on Cleveland’s east side, Andrew would return home to a violent and unpredictable evening. No homework after dinner. His first task was arousing his mother from a drunken stupor and trying to get some coffee into her. This was important because if she was not at least presentable by the time his steel-worker father came home, the beatings would begin. No one at school could imagine the pain Andrew cloaked in his bow-legged aggression and spit-filled invectives. It was only by tragic accident that this practice became known at all.

Andrew lived in the very last house of an otherwise nice street. His front stoop was in such ill-repair that it nearly collapsed into the cross street, Parkwood Avenue, and the frost-cracked and uneven sidewalk served as a geographical warning for those strolling by. His house was unavoidable if one were to make it two-thirds of the way up the street to a home where kindness, love and responsibility made up almost every evening. This one afternoon the fat target of his frequent rages stayed half a block behind as we slowly put a little distance between us and the school. There was a full expectation that he would notice the other boy on the block – through some bully-radar all such aggressors surely have – and turn to lay a quick beating on the kid, one more before calling it a day. But he did not. As we got closer to his house, his walk became less sure, less of a stride and more of a creep. The boat of an Oldsmobile was in the drive, still blocking the sidewalk with half its nose in the off-kilter garage. Andrew seemed to dread the sight. It was not clear to the rear guard exactly why, but his combination slump and run to the back door was something never before seen on the fourteen-year-old alpha male. Then there was something else: a moment in time when the face of the bully turned to the street. The at once frightened and curious frequent victim - still three houses away and until that moment meant nothing to Andrew - was face to face with a silent plea from his personal T-Rex: Help Me.

That night he became One of Twelve. Barely older than the weapon that brought him down right about the time most of his classmates were sneaking a peek at Johnny’s monologue. Andrew’s father was caught at work the next day. Reported like nothing ever happen; like his wife and son were not sprawled lifeless in the otherwise neat kitchen of their Pasadena Ave. house. She had to keep the kitchen clean, even while serving dinner, or her husband would use a razor strap on her upper thighs. Even if Andrew tried to help all it got him was a massive left fist to the back of the head. That night he got home early, or Andrew got home late, memory only goes so far. Regardless it was too late for all three forgotten souls. Andrew and his mom were buried side by side in a small cemetery. A collection was taken up at school. It was not much. Andrew’s father died inside of a year of his imprisonment.

The eighth grader still swaggers in the haze of a reckless time. It is difficult to know that such a tough boy was filled with such fear. It was easy to remember what happened when the curtain went down and Andrew lost his chance. There was talk at FDR that he would have passed the eighth grade. No need for a third try.

The Murder Hammer

CLEVELAND [October 28, 2005] -- There is a sad reality that certain people are more likely to know someone who has murdered or has been murdered. The breakdown is demographic, racial and shocking. Two children, one nine and one fourteen, have been exposed to a double shooter and, most recently, a victim of gun violence. It is not a comment on society; they have a good family and live in a safe suburb of a large southern city. Trouble does not follow them. It just happened, and to their credit, they deal with the daily joys and pains of youth, not the horror of the some – few, really – adults.

The latest in this line of tragic events was a young man the children came to call “dad.” It was a designation of convenience in that their mother was seeing the man enough for his presence to gain some relevance. And he seemed to respect the honorific enough in the time he was part of the family. Not all believed this was wise. As it turned out, the minority report was correct. The young man never could get his footing. He left this family without the courtesy of severing the ties; leaving the one who loved him in doubt and crisis. The kids suffered through her, but still had the tough job of being kids, as mentioned, and filled their days with whatever came along. Moving back north, the young man took up with another woman with children – this seemed to be his most promising vocation - and fell to shots while he slept fired by her estranged husband. Where he slept and the obsession of the shooter combined inevitably into the deadly episode. The story is all too common: jealousy and rage.

Have you known anyone who was murdered or did the killing? Twelve: that is the number haunting these fifty-two years. It is little wonder why the genre became so compelling. There are more than a few real minds to step into when the page demands a re-creation of that moment, that EOL.

These stories are sad, but the events alone do not make a mystery. With some skill one could make a compelling story, but the closeness of those involved and the frequency of the news; thank you, no.

Mysteries and Thrillers do not rely on reality as much as the reader might think. The more one studies and nuance of a job, say that of a homicide detective, the more one realizes that there is more fiction than even the fiction on the page. What story could continue while the main character is on the required administrative leave after a shooting? One favorite motive could not hold up to the stringent regulations of the insurance industry, while another would require a serious case of sociopathy to make any sense at all. The difference between a good mystery, even a fair one and non-fiction is something like a Mystery Hammer.

The Hammer allows the killer time to get away, while in most cases the cops would have grabbed him before he could wash the blood from his clothes. The Hammer has a good investigator checking out the strange behavior of the dog before nabbing the wife who benefits from the victim’s quarter-million dollar life policy. The Hammer created computer programs that match fingerprints at blinding speed and delivers DNA results in less than a week. The Hammer makes detectives out of pathologists, archeologists, mathematicians, psychics, talk show hosts, sex therapists and a slew of amateurs while the real investigators chase their tails. If we are not careful, the Hammer can distort the mystery beyond recognition.

The Mystery Hammer, like the Mystery Pliers and the Mystery Wrench, is an important tool, but it must be used with care and skill. Keep the blunt instruments in the hands of those characters who would use them with total disregard for the safety of other characters.

As those two wonderful children know, the fictional Mystery Hammer can nail shut the door against far too painful realities. These are sad stories, especially those over which we have no control at all.

The Next Project

The Number 2 car took the top of the straightaway and spun widely. It was not one of the many accidents NASCAR fans have come to expect. It was the end of a small track race in Memphis. About $100,000 worth of rubber converted into the White Smoke of the Victor. This driver was happy, others made the requisite excuses and one even went after a competitor in a violent rage worthy of the WWE. This is the growing metaphor for MassAmerica. The little guy with lots of corporate backing doing what is illegal under most circumstances – especially as he was learning his craft on the back roads of countless southern towns - and taking the checkered flag.

The very genesis of the sport can be traced to the ridge-runners of Tennessee and West Virginia, Kentucky and Eastern Missouri. The out-of-their-league IRS agents, the only enforcement arm with legal standing in stopping the production of distilled spirits, were no match for the modified Fords and Plymouths. It literally became a sport; a cat and mouse game, with skilled drivers hauling jugs of moonshine or Canadian whisky neatly packed in burlap lined trunks, darting on and off dirt roads. There was little chance of detection.

Today the more spectators the better. If this sounds like a recap of last week’s 60 Minutes piece, it is not. NASCAR is one of many successful ventures that has grown beyond any conceived expectations, certainly beyond any perceived limitations. But even it began as a project; someone’s scheme that had as much chance of succeeding as your wildest dream.

In management we learn the cynical side of team building and project development. As it relates to the team of one (at least in the initial stages) fiction writing for a mass audience has a similar dynamic. If you have not heard the Dark Side of business practices, here are the six steps of a project:

1. Exultation 2. Confusion 3. Disillusionment 4. Search for the Guilty 5. Punish the Innocent 6. Distinction for the Uninvolved

When we sit down to write our first story, it is difficult to contain the first three steps. The daunting task seems the perfect containment for festering egoism and lingering doubt. Many seek out the advice of others – family and friends first – and we hear what we want to hear. But we push on and with luck, perseverance and a modicum of insanity, eventually there is something to sell; or at least present.

It is important to remember that first step in the process and stretch it as large and wide as possible. Use it to shadow the others and wrap the future in the feeling you had when the story fell together and made sense to you! As many who have taken up the calling will tell you, it is difficult to reap a living from such work. As one story sits in the final stages of the decision-making process at a good-sized publisher – and others remain in some form of stasis at other houses – another project begins.

Does it really matter what we sell, what we place on the table as a product of our skill and ability? What is important is that the buyer, whomever he or she might be, is willing to trust you. Such conviction is easy with the six stories of The Radio Murders; they are the product of one mind and one man’s hard work.

But while we wait for the results of love’s labor lost, have you given serious thought to your health insurance coverage?

Goodnight Mr. K

(Member's Note: Mr. K died just before midnight on October 18th. The condition of his body and mind would make the most graphic of horror writers turn away in shock. Mr. K was the father of the love, partner and soul mate of my life. She is having trouble finding ways to grieve. This was not an honest man. At times he was quite charming, but there was always an undertow of sardonic purpose; reasons known only to him. I will not try and recreate a suitable impression of this man, rather pull from the archives an essay written this summer following a birthday visit to his home in Mayfield Heights: a place made livable by his wife in spite of Mr. K’s difficulties with just being a decent person. It is for Mrs. K that I wish sunshine and happiness. Mr. K was never unkind to me, but I knew. Language barrier and nuance aside, one cannot hide a dark and desperate spirit. All that is in the past, now we sincerely hope he has found peace.)

CLEVELAND [June 29, 2005] -- “Now, let’s take a look at yesterday’s weather…” That was not the first clue, not even the third or fourth that the voice coming out of the radio was comically incompetent. To his defense the show opened with nearly a minute of dead-air and the customary excuse: technical difficulties. But the show must go on and the Armenian Hour suddenly had a new host. If that was all, a simple turn of the knob and the nightmare, absurdity and all, would have ended. No space in Personal Notes required.

This was not to be. A visit with TK was never simple.

The radio show was part of a family ritual, the eighty-second birthday of a father and father-in-law. Several things make this chore tantamount to vacationing at Gitmo. First there is the condition of the poor man: cancer has rendered his face hopelessly distorted. Distended portions of the upper lip and post-operative sunken cheekbone have melted the right side into a manducus worthy of The House of Wax. He is a pitiful sight. But pity only goes so far when the person displays a demeanor fitting the malady.

First he calls to his daughter. With a clear-shelled phone in hand, he begs her to call the Hungarian language radio show and request a birthday wish, “from the family.” It was difficult to get through. When she finally did, the announcer informed her that he had already wished Mr. K a happy birthday earlier in the two hour program.

“Here’s a press release from the Armenian Council in Washington…” After the Hungarian Show, the Armenian fiasco began. But at the dinner table, the Hungarian Tragedy continued.

“When I found out I had daughters, I hung myself on the cucumber tree in the town square.” What? “In World War II, we were on the side of the Germans. The Jews made us lose.” Okay, now I know you’re insane. Mr. K leans on the table, his collar-less pajama top has a safety pin holding it against a skeletal chest. The ravaged side of his face holds no hair, but the other side ripples with gray stubble. Pale blue eyes wander until they pounce on someone at the table, accompanying outrageous accusations. With hygiene rivaling Rasputin, he shuffles around his small house for the hour, maybe two, when he does not sleep.

It is important to know that this writer does not speak Hungarian. There is some advantage to not knowing the nuance of language. Expressions flatten together and eyes roll together. All the language impaired can do is imagine the dynamics.

“If you have your calendar handy, get ready to mark on it. If not, then a scrap of paper is good. Yes, get that and a pencil and then you can put this in your calendar when you have it handy. Or maybe you’ll remember. The Armenian church is having a picnic…” (That is word-for-word from our extreme amateur radio host).

Mr. K’s wife asks, apparently for the twentieth time, for the registration to the car. “I swear he is hiding it from me!” Mr. K speaks of making dustpans in the early days of his job as an electrician. He sits at the table, stacks of old papers framing the sad picture. He anxiously shows the visitor a headline from Pope John Paul’s last day, over-written in red marker is the pope’s name in a child’s endearments along with the date of his papacy. He used the same marker to date the fortune from a cookie; the felt tip and an unsteady hand obliterate the platitude. But he saves it anyway

“Let’s play some more Armenian songs. This one is from…well, it’s in Armenian.” (This after eighteen minutes of reading press releases and week-old headlines from Armenian newspapers punctuated by fumbling with paper and long seconds of silence.)

Finally, and mercifully, Mrs. K brings out the coffee and little apple cakes. It is almost over. “Why America force the world to live our way?” He pounds the table enough to spill coffee from delicate bone cups. “Where is this Saddam now?”

He is about to have his novel published.

"Ho ha, maybe you two shake hands one day.”

It is enough. Happy birthday, but we really have to leave. Now.

Birth of a Salesman

CLEVELAND [OCTOBER 20] -- It is very difficult to be a literate person in a run-on world. Even the use of the first adjective is highly subjective. But most visiting this space – or any of the contributions on Publisher’s Marketplace and other sites devoted to selling the written word – have taken the requisite time to understand the fundamentals of the language. It is disheartening enough to have your work parsed and par-boiled by professionals; at least you can learn from such torture. Yet when one steps away from the keyboard and the fantasy, the true deficiency of the common craft is more than jarring.

The state of business communications would make a third-grade English teacher weep uncontrollably.

In the course of things, trying to pay the mortgage and remain suitably nourished, a writer finds himself in the world of selling. This is not such a far cry from the work done everyday for the last four years. Writing is selling. First you sell yourself on the possibility: an exercise in sheer audacity. “I can do this!” the voice echoes after reading Connelly or Paterson, two writers who make it look easy. Then you set out to construct the house of words and ready it for market. Few realize the huge task ahead.

About a year into the process you realize that writing a long piece is just like building a house: foundation, frame, infrastructure, fixtures, finish, furnishings and finally – if all the parts fit together and work properly – a family. Most builders have dozens of experts working on each aspect of the construction. All you have is you and the resources you can master. The first attempt was a creaky mansion that fell under its own weight. Tear it down, start again and a nice bungalow was completed with many flaws, but livable - one hopes. More lessons and more building until by House Six, Book Six, all the insular training has paid off. You have before you a mediocre commercial entity. Being completely honest, what more could you ask for? If there is a sale anywhere in this cul-de-sac of disparate structures, this parade of learning by trial and – some would suggest – fire, then the builder can collect his tools and survey a new field. He can start the process all over again.

In the meantime, what about that bank account? In entering the working world the process is surprisingly similar. There’s the convincing part: you can do this. There is the coaching part: don’t give up on us now! And there is the building part: step by step, you must build trust in the customer. From the other side of the ledger we tend to dismiss the salesman. We see either Willy Loman or Donald Trump with no recognition of the vast middle of the highly successful or the frightened-nearly-to-death incompetent. The prospect of sitting in a living room, or around the kitchen table and talking about benefits and coverage, deductibles and exemptions seems anathema to the convenient world created from the undisciplined imagination. One wrong word, one wrong expression and there is no backspace key, no second draft; you have lost a fan. Make no mistake; the process by which anything is sold is the same as making a fan. The buyer must trust you, in doing so they must like you and you must cultivate that relationship.

For many this is easy. The wonderful Mrs. Monika Collins says her husband is a natural. We shall see. But the real test will come after that first sale, which undoubtedly will coincide with the first publisher’s offer.

That’s when the real selling job begins.

Zen and Waiting at Hartsfield-Jackson

ATLANTA [OCTOBER 14] -- Perhaps it was because there was no one else to blame – having missed the first direct, and presumably smooth flight to Tampa – so all frustration was directed inward. It would not have mattered. There are those who find fault no matter the reality and those who just deal with it. At the risk of sounding like a throwback to the Baba Ram Dass, kaleidoscope-eyes point of view, there is a right way of making it through hours of waiting and clearly many more wrong ways.

Setting aside the true banality of it all (there are Pakistanis digging through blood-soaked mud trying desperately to find what’s left of their families) waiting stand-by still sucks. So here is the view from inside a calm brain with pretty much all day to get where it needs to be.

Getting out of Akron-Canton was no problem at all, as one might suspect. Landing at one of the busiest airports in the country and trying to find the same level of small-town service was another chapter in the mounting tragedy. There is little room for courtesy from over-worked and constantly hassled counter people. There is nothing new on this front, so we’ll just assume they are doing their best and move on from there.

A man with a Country Club polo steps up and asks: “Do you have my plane ready?” the big smile infected the dour counter-girl, but no one else, including his wife. “Not quite, the plane is delayed for everyone.” Even you Mr. Top-2-Percenter.

The enormous woman sits on the far seat and still sends aftershocks through the contiguous row. “I am so full right now.” Really?

It looks like it took little effort to get the lazy-eyed musician’s hair to poke out from the frizz. But it is probably a skilled craft. He has on expensive sandals and a bag slung over his shoulder that is a banjo, a small sitar or an elaborate bong. Refusing to believe it is a banjo, either other option will do.

A young man with short, red hair strikes up a conversation with the white-haired, mustachioed man whose wife is sitting cross-legged on the carpet. He asked for the time, an observer volunteers the information and the red-haired man fires a look back as though the stranger said his mother was a whore. Very odd. Was he seeking to bond with this father-figure and the stranger severed an epiphany? “Dad, it’s me! Watch-less Wally!” Does he just hate black people?

In the corner now, recently vacated by the sleeping weight-lifter of Asian descent. The internal debate of dropping to the floor was rendered moot by the recurrence of enormous woman. “I am so full!” Again? Guess it has been a little less than four hours. She takes the corner like Grant took Richmond. This is a young woman with a fairly attractive face, except for the-world-is-unfair-so-screw-you-all expression. Her bottom has formed its own nearly perfect table-top that is parallel to the ground, when she is vertical. This is not a fat person slight; it is a fact that she would require two seats on the now three-hour late airplane. Then, up from that fully occupied corner comes a volley of fumes that can only be describes as cross-species toxins of death. It is a temporary exhaust, one suspects that she is otherwise meticulous in her hygiene. But a fart is a fart and this is the Mother of All Farts! Eyes water and breathing takes on apocalyptic consequences. Stepping to the musician with the pretense of asking him something, one only hopes that his residual aura is mightier than and swap gas emanating from the corner. It is not. He is clean and that soon falls under the oppressive invader.

Mercifully, boarding begins within minutes, as though the gods of air travel sensed the danger. She and Country-Club man and the red-headed lost-boy and the white haired man and his comfortable-in-her-body wife all step through the door to flight and freedom. One stand-by of thirty gets a seat.

It is not to be. But that is fine. There is little doubt that only the stand-by space available is the one squeezed between enormous woman and red-haired, dude, what is your problem? Some things are best unlearned.

When Failure is Unacceptable

A seed or two has been planted in this organic space about the value of failure. It is to learning what verbs are to writing: the action that begets action. When we fail, if we are honest and courageous, we find the flaw in our behavior and we correct it. When we fail, we are denied the success that drives our work. The prize gains in value and determination is strengthened. Failure is the artist’s best friend when defined in these terms. Early writing attempts – very early – were often stunted before a hint of form or value because of a serious failure in spelling and constant doubt in sentence structure. Four or six years of study at even a mediocre university might have dampened those fears, but who had time for that? Life was moving at a break-neck pace and this writer did not want to miss a single story. (And the word processor was just over the horizon!)

If the point was living experiences that fuel today’s fiction, then failure was the counterpoint.

Yet for most successful people, failure is unacceptable. That was exactly how it was framed in a recent conversation. The speaker was a successful salesman and someone whose self-worth is clearly defined: he knows himself and he works the strengths. Most people struggle with that concept. DL not only knows himself, but he embraces his role with all the ferocity of a middle-linebacker. For that reason alone people trust him. So people buy from him. There is a great deal to learn from someone with an 180° opposing approach to the craft of living.

Cop Rock and New Coke

There are plenty of examples in recent history of failures from which nothing was learned and nothing gained except the punch line to an obscure joke. Few remember the blank check Steven Bochco was given after this wildly successful Hill Street Blues. From that fertile mind came a concept so bold as to leave the network executives scratching their heads even while placing the laughable drama on the schedule. It was not showing David Caruso’s bare behind and all but the areolas of his lover; that came later. The year was 1990 and the concept was part police crime drama and part Chicago, The Musical. If there was a second airing of the completely baffling cocktail of genres no one saw it.

What happens when P. T. Barnum is given all the money in the world? The XFL, of course. Wrestling showman and entrepreneur-in-the-extreme Vince McMahon had the bright idea – one can only hope it was during a steroid induced hallucination – that the carefully choreographed and narrated success of the World Wrestling Federation or Entertainment or whatever, could field a league of American football. But it was not football; it was brutality and egoism gone wild. Even hard core football fans saw through the rules changes and the showboating. McMahon and his investors, most notable NBC, took a sack in the end-zone and league quietly whimpered off the stage midway through its second season.

We all remember the fiasco of New Coke. Some think the formula has been resurrected in the new Coke with Splenda. But how many remember the Clear Cola? This was one even Coke did not try. It was Pepsi that got the bright idea that the best way to sure up sagging market shares was to remove the coffee color from its product: addition by subtraction. This from the same company that marketed fake fat under the name Olestra. Not a bad idea. The chips were okay, but the runs that followed were not that much fun.

These are the kinds of experiments and risk-taking our honest salesman was talking about when he said failure is unacceptable. Pull up a TV table; pour a bag of WOW chips; pop open a Crystal Pepsi and turn into Cop Rock or the XFL (the latter is highly preferable). Sometimes failures are simply failures.

The Five-Minute Mystery

The Five-Minute Mystery -- “There it is. No more options.” Manny left the meeting with an upbeat appraisal and an as-sincere-as-possible, things will work out, somehow. But sitting in the rental, he knew better. “How could he turn down a loan package like this?” His hands gripped the steering wheel until there was no more room for circulating blood. It was the dull ache and numbness in his wrists that alerted him to the physical reaction. The old man turned him down flat. Flailing his arms and shouting obscenities at the mere thought of one man asking for money from another, there was no room for negotiation. The depression era relative had rules, and he followed them to the letter: never put more than $100,000 in one bank (that being the limit of the insurance protection), and never touch the principle. What Manny asked would necessitate a dip into one of the accounts by nearly a quarter. The necessary paperwork added to the litter on the seat of the rental. Even at 97 years-old, and with Manny and his wife the old man’s sole beneficiaries, it was just not done.

There was one more option: the solution that would take care of everything and everyone. “Spiders do it.” He mumbled as he slowed the car on the gravel surface. For some unknown reason he thought of the marble sized balls of careful webbing he had pulled from her garden fence. It was tough to free them. The giant, yellow and black garden spider made sure of it. But he did not want an infantry of the near tropical eight-legers stalking her tomatoes and peppers next year, so he yanked the egg sacks out and tried to gently relocate them in the small strip of pine trees at the rear of the property. It’s the last thing she does to keep the family going, he thought, and she is babies’ first meals.

Firearms training and an especially morbid interest in the manner and means of death haunted his decision. “Brain shot or brain stem.” These were the only known ways to immediately stop an attacker. The police know it, but few others do. Believing instead what that see on TV and in the movies: that a gunshot can fatten a man. Nonsense. This needed some care, some planning. It had to look like a robbery or car jacking.

“God, you really want this.” The statement accompanied the sight of the hitchhiker. He was gruff enough, Manny thought. Stubble of blond beard and washed out blue eyes. The thrift shop outfit was relatively clean and, walking steadily toward the car, he seemed sober. “Need a lift?” Manny called out to the stranger.

---

“You want me to do what, now?” The vagrant sipped the fortified wine Manny had purchased. The bottle held tightly in latex-gloved hands; gloves also provided by the driver.

“Did you know that the overwhelming majority of homicides are committed by people who know the victim, most times intimately?” Manny was excited and determined to make this last sales pitch his best. “That’s why hit men can have long and rewarding careers. They don’t know their clients or their, let’s call them customers, so the police never catch a break. No leads, no sale.”

The stranger tried to take it all in. The .38 was sitting on the stack of papers between them. “So I shoot you, you give me $200.00 and that’s that?”

“Well, not in that order, but yes. And you have to leave everything else alone, don’t try to steal the car or anything else, or you will be caught. I know, I study police and killers for my books. Books I couldn't pay people to read, apparently.”

“You know somethin’ mister. You talk a lot.” The stranger picked up the .38 and fired right in the area he imagined was Manny’s heart. He was right.

“That’s another thing,” Manny said, his breath growing short, “You were supposed to shoot me in the head. Heart shots…a man can live up to fifteen sec.” Manny slumped over the steering wheel with a hard thud.

The stranger looked at his handy work, sipped more from the wine and waited, not knowing what to do next. Then he heard the phone. It was Manny’s, coming from beneath the stack of papers. “Hello?” He listened intently. “Yes, this is Manny’s...umm, associate. The loan? Sure he’s still interested, tell you what, we’ll meet you at the bank.”

The stranger finished the last of the wine, shoved Manny from the driver seat onto the stony lot, and headed back toward the city.

Writing the Same Story Over and Over

CLEVELAND [October 7] -- The passing of playwright August Wilson brought to mind the institution of theatre and art generally. Few things in our culture are so gleefully segregated as is the creative process by which black and white America approach artistic expression. It is clearly defined in music and movies. What some might dismiss as pedantic and parochial – Hip-Hop, films like Barbershop and Next Friday or the minor phenomenon of Hip-Hop-Lit – the urban culture it serves elevates to art by sheer appreciation and support.

It was this kind of back-door celebration that gave rise to Blues, Jazz, and ultimately Rock. Today the only music without an African–American nexus is Country and Opera. And one could argue that both have been heavily influenced by what has become generically known as “The Black Experience.” If one were to remove the racial component from the equation, what is left is the plight of the poor and disenfranchised, for whatever the reason, in the midst of the wealthiest country ever conceived. That can certainly apply to the hard life of many country music fans.

August Wilson parsed the hard life of black folks living on The Hill in Pittsburgh. It was Hough in Cleveland, Roxbury in Boston, Harlem (or The Bronx) in New York, The Southside of Chicago, Watts or South-Central L. A. His Black Theatre starts with a baseline lower than most in suffering and hardship. It tends to elevate the importance of family and tradition, mysticism and faith. The tradition of oral history is rich and persuasive, if one only listens. There is no surprise that the fate of a lowly carpenter who dared speak out against the status quo was similar to that of many a black boy just for following his nature. Jesus seems to carry a great message among these fictional, yet shockingly real families in Mr. Wilson’s plays and a thousand others not quite so celebrated. It is not just because of the legend and miracles, real or enhanced, it is because they saw or heard of the same Passion carried out again and again right in their own neighborhoods, often in their own town squares. Who would not fervently believe in an afterlife if this life is so miserable? That is The Black Experience as portrayed on The Hill, in plays and movies and in infinite triplets blaring from radios.

Some might say, “it’s ancient history, get over it.” Many things can be forgiven, but some things cannot be forgotten.

(Stepping down awkwardly from the soapbox)…

Mr. Wilson spoke of writing the same story over and over again. Paraphrasing: The streets that Balboa walks are a private ocean, and Balboa is drowning. We all tend to write the same story. The names and faces change. If we do even a little homework the places and unique characteristics of the tale flex enough to keep it interesting, at least for the writer. But when it is all stripped away, the same two or three sentences remain. The Radio Murders can be summed up this way: Show me someone worst than me and I’ll feel better. Show me how they overcome great odds and I’ll learn something. Maybe. But these stories are commercial fiction and nothing more, so the first sentence is probably enough.

There is a real advantage in writing from a particular cultural perspective. It is also freeing when the starting point is a simple concept: one or two sentences in need of a story. August Wilson and other great, self-taught explorers of everyday relationships in everyday lives dealing courageously – or not so – with everyday struggles made it look easy. For the observer, reality with the most upheaval might just be the easiest to frame in fiction. When it seems the whole world is against your protagonist, there’s little need to define the enemy.

The Joke

For this exercise we are going to need a mat and a small ball. The ball is simply a substitute for the vilest, most perverse and unthinkable thing imaginable. When instructed, bounce the ball. The order will come in this form: ~bounce~.

Now let’s all be seated, cross-legged like the children in pre-school, and listen to the great funny-man philosopher. The Aristocrats is a joke that is told by comedians to comedians. With one notable exception it is almost never performed. Yet it is the standard by which the creativity, energy and craft is judged among peers.

All professions have such gauntlets. In radio it could be matching artist and song, album and year. It could even be bits and stunts done by Legendary Radio Hosts that have grown to historic proportions. In fiction writing it could be sharing the back story about some of the most tragic figures in the profession. The most compelling of which end with the lines: died penniless and addicted; or went insane before his classic was published; or hasn’t been seen since. What a wonderful ideal!

But The Aristocrats, as portrayed in this interesting and evocative film, is just another bit of improvisation that allows the comedian to pierce the toughest audience in the world: other comedians. With a tag line, No Nudity No Violence Unspeakable Obscenity, director Paul Provenza and executive producer Penn Jillette steal ninety minutes to take us inside the comedian’s private basement. You know the place, where the stench of the dysfunctional family is as distinctive as decomp; where the real pain behind the funny is locked up in a musty floor safe. A lot like writers, no? The real passionate sufferers who hate their fans as much as their critics, because even though they praise the work, “they still don’t understand!” Comedians do not have time to think in such nuance. Their work is rarely durable. The story must be written again and again, almost every night.

So they use The Aristocrats to entertain one another. And it goes like this (two, three, four): A man walks into this cluttered talent agent’s office and says, “I have the greatest act you’ve ever seen, wanna hear about it?” The agent peeks up from stacks of contracts and magazines and says, “Sure.” (get the ball ready). The man says, “It’s a family act, see. The father comes out on stage and introduces his wife who, on a musical cue starts ~bounce~ right there on the stage floor. The man gets down and rolls around in it and then she ~bounce~ right in his mouth. Then the daughter comes out, she’s about 14 and she ~bounce~ the dad, then the little brother, he’s twelve now, he comes out and he ~bounce~ the mom right there in the ~bounce~. Then they all start ~bounce~ each other taking turns and ~bounce~ from both sides and ~bounce~ some more until the stage is filled with nothing but ~bounce~ father, mother and kids and covered in ~bounce~ and ~bounce~ each other in every way you can imagine!” The talent agent stares, drop-faced, mortified, barely about to get his mouth to work. Finally he asks the man, “that’s the most disgusting thing…the worst thing I ever heard! What do you call an act like that?” The man smiles with pride and says, “The Aristocrats!” (Member's note: Here's where you either fall on the mat laughing, or roll it up and beat me silly with it)

Not much of a joke. But that is the point, from the great misomaniac George Carlin to the terminally lovable Bob Saget, we are treated to increasingly bizarre versions, adaptations and permutation of the same shocking tale, breathing new life and inescapable laughs with every cut. It is hard to imagine anything funnier than Tommy Smothers, who is in on the joke, telling his in-the-dark brother the story with all the classic timing and harmony only a team with decades of depth can muster. Martin Mull’s reverse take on the joke was worthy of this Cleveland born sullen genius, while another Clevelander - perhaps more fitting of the pedigree – Drew Carey gave the wicked quip a little choreography.

In keeping with true comic wizardry, the creators of this amazing work saved the best for last. It was during a roast of Hugh Hefner, in New York painfully contemporary to the 9-11 attacks. The performer: Gilbert Gottfried. The joke: The Aristocrats. It gave us permission to laugh again, said one of the attendees. And that’s the beauty of America, the part the rest of the world may never get until this little experiment is long gone. It took the dirtiest joke ever told, by the most obnoxious voice conceivable, to help us deal with our deepest heartbreak. We had permission to unfetter our funny men and women; to laugh at ourselves again. And that might be our greatest strength and perhaps our only salvation.

The Aristocrats

CLEVELAND [October 1] Coming from a relatively under-peopled group of professionals (radio programmers), and trying like heck to join another, it was refreshing to see a film totally dedicated to the comedian’s secret life: The Aristocrats. Try to count on both hands how many comedians are known by name. Try to fill one hand. Most of us can peel off a slew of writers, living and dead. But the stand-up men and women are more elite than even that rare group. Having been through this for only three years, it is clear that the competition and tight money in publishing make the screening process arduous and impassive. But comedians have their own initiation, and it borders on the psychotic.

Imagine rejection letters with loud, heckling voices, soaked in alcohol and coming in crowds of fifty or more.

Back in Radio days, we had an event that would be happening right about this time of year. It was called Vegas Night and was staged in this throwback of a nightclub in west Akron. In the interest of trying to make it as much like the real Las Vegas as possible, we would book a national, hopefully rising star of a band and a comedian opener. Three shows, 6-8-and 10. The bands were not a problem. Record labels were more than willing to foot the bill for such a showcase. The comedians were a different story all together. Over the five years as producer/director of the performance, most of the bands and comedians served the event very well. But there are always exceptions.

The first comedienne was a tiny strawberry blond whose big finish was imitating, with a voice that simply cannot be duplicated, what a vagina was thinking during sex. It was hilarious, but shot over the heads of many in the audience. This was, after all, Akron Ohio. There are most certainly other women on the circuit who have contemplated exactly the same riff. But to hear it from this innocent looking slip of a woman was almost too much. That was the review on this performance: too much.

Others hit the stage and did well. Then there was a man whose credits included guest shots on “That 70’ Show.” His name has long been excised from memory, but his performance was not something easily forgotten. As he was losing the 10pm audience, something came over him and he decided to act out. First his eyes were closed during much of the monologue, which led a decidedly unamused lady in the front row to ask if he was blind. Okay, I’m not funny, so I'll go with that. “Yes!” he exclaimed. "I come from a long line of blind comedians and we all have diabetes, too! And you guys are just plain cruel!” It might be helpful to note that the charity benefiting from the event was the Diabetes Foundation. This was not going well at all. The failed performer tried a few jokes under his new guise as a blind, diabetic funny man deserving of your laughs, if only because you feel sorry for him. He got a reaction from the audience, all right. In the form of boos and catcalls. Finally throwing everyone double-barreled fingers, he ran off stage crying. Really, he still had the lavaliere mic on and everyone heard his curses and sobs.

This was a low point in the short history of Vegas Night. According to Keith, who took over the thankless duty, it seems to have remained so.

That is why The Aristocrats is so compelling and the kind of funny that causes embarrassment just for laughing. In our next visit, we will carefully examine the body of the documentary. That will not be easy.

Meet the Folks

His were the eyes of the artist: pale and wide. There were signs of relief in his demeanor, finally believing his friend's forecast that her folks were non-threatening and in many ways more like him than not. The meal was not important in that way. The pair had already settled within the comfy jeans of being good friends. Then the common thread was discovered. It began with the older man reading the younger man’s upper-arm tattoo: Goodbye Blue Monday, the recently discarded subtitle of a famous Vonnegut. That began the conversation between the two men based on their fondness for the author. The younger man seemed to pick up where the older man left off, with Breakfast of Champions. Difference in opinions about the book, perhaps the last in the reign of the great American novelist, illustrated the divide between the generations and equilibrium was reached. Close, but not too close. After all, there must be a reasonable quarter century for the generations to coexist, especially over a nice dinner in a favorite Asian restaurant.

pull box62 Meeting friends is a point of pride during our trips to Chicago. The younger member of the family, the one with the requisite determination to find her place in society, seems happy to expose her folks to her developing world. One wonders if that is true across the vast parent-child landscape. This child is no child and has not been since the age of twelve. That was when we sat in a small theater and watched an R-rated movie. It was not a conscious experiment. It just happened. There were far too many adult burdens placed on her in the real world as well. And she clearly illustrates the adage, what does not kill us makes us stronger. In many ways she is stronger than her parents.

The next new acquaintance was far more important: the new roommate. There was no need for a predicate to the meeting, but conversation demands something. “She is me, version 10.1,” she said while showing off her new apartment. The huge space sits above an insurance agency on a busy north-west avenue. There was unabashed fondness for the person sharing her home, and once the greetings were made the reasons became clear. The roommate is a thoughtful, engaging and positive person. She works in a research lab and will have a cavalry of initials behind her name someday. There are similar interests between the women and mutual admiration is the undertow of their short story. poppy's kitchen

There is another roommate. His story is enough for an entire visit with these Personal Notes; perhaps an entire book.

The old guard was in attendance for the most part. The actor/playwright was spotted during a long walk and street-corner updates were exchanged. He is in a new play and one of his originals is being performed somewhere in town. “Somewhere small and below ground.” This is a good place to start such a difficult and demanding craft. The former roomy - also an actor - is in a play in one of the city’s many community theater groups. Her talent overflows a room filled with other friends, new and old, during a pot luck held on the last night of our visit. Thumbnails of a well populated support system prompted a rare moment when we instinctively knew that she would be okay. Worry still? Always. Those of you in similar situations understand that such thoughts and fears will never fade. But when you know her friends, and when you are lucky enough to know her, those dreary little demons stay where they belong: among the dust bunnies that collect under her bed. The bed that remains in her room in your house, and that she claims only once or twice a year, usually during holidays.

Right now, at least, Chicago is where she belongs. It is a city with plenty of flaws and dangers, but it just might be the best city in the world.

Wicker Park, After Dark

CLEVELAND [September 25] 60622: numbers that mean something. A child of the 50’s watching his mother’s favorite game show can still hear the numbers in a promotion for the Spiegel Catalogue Company; Chicago 60609! It meant the end of the needlessly cheerful exchange of trivia and prizes and the beginning of something better: probably lunch.

Now the numbers represent a small town for a large part of the future and family. They designate the neighborhoods in and around Wicker Park, including Ukrainian Village, Bucktown and Near West and River West. It is also the digital plot that is the adopted home; chosen by one, the youngest and most enlightened, but a good choice that affords visits to the city a couple of times a year – whether she likes it or not.

Great cities are like that. They consist of knitted small communities that thrive on the knowledge that there is a fraternity of being, of living under the same circumstances, facing like challenges and enduring, perhaps even prospering at a fairly even pace. Some blocks are more open to others and some are downright hostile. It depends on the city. In Chicago there are examples of both.

Central to 60622 is a fine little green. Shiny black wrought iron spears hold back the street except for wide openings at the corners. In daylight the carefully tended nursery of perennials that lines Damen Avenue offers armature horticulturist a chance to test their identification skills. Mid September the deceivingly unruly bunch sends bold buds over and through the fence, spread wide into inviting chasms for buzzing collectors. One can accumulate a serious pollen count just by holding out a hand while walking by. The right triangle is an inviting destination for those in the neighborhood who seek refuge from the city noise and pace. Children are especially drawn to the colorful giant playthings and a wealth of exploration. The small town within the nation’s third largest city is populated mostly by the young, and many are usually there in the park, when possible, consulting nature to help them with decisions and using it as a suitable backdrop for new love. Being young means every decision is critical, and on average half of them are wrong. There is no difference later in life, it is just that we become aware of the dichotomy. And we don’t use a natural space as much as we should.

Nightfall on Wicker Park is a different story entirely. The blooms are still there, but many shrink into plant-sleep, miserly saving their chlorophyll in case the sun is a no-show tomorrow. The shiny sentries are still in place, welded every five inches along Shiller, Wicker Park Avenue and Damen. But the families are gone and only the boldest – horniest and drunkest - of lovers dare venture in. At night Wicker Park becomes the United Nations, the Situation Room and the Gathering of Eagles in the minds of the unrepentant alcoholics. You can hear them debating as you walk toward the fractiously cool clubs, restaurants and other nighttime hangs that make the five points a serious draw. If you are versed in the language of the drunk, you can hear discussions about the deliberate flooding of black folks in New Orleans – a given – and the positioning of black soldiers as sniper decoys in Iraq. You can just make out future chart-topping rap verses and perfectly plausible reasons why, the only people who are real is us; ethanol enhancement not withstanding.

It is a place this writer has been before: sitting on the picnic table, pacing the ever-shrinking liquid and able, perhaps during the only time such a process is possible, to live in the moment. It is freeing. The life of a nighttime park drunk is brave and short, cowardly and infinite and reveals all the right answers, only to have them dissolved by unconsciousness and forever wiped away by the morning sun. It is a good novel that is impossible to write. Yet there it is, beginning right around 9pm central time, on separate stages scattered neatly

Fear and Loving in Chicago

Family in America usually means family spread all over the country. With representatives in Atlanta, St. Petersburg and Chicago, the tendency is to devote most travel time to a little facetime. Chicago is especially inviting because it might just be the finest city in the world! That is not fawning; there is nothing to gain or lose in being truthful about a place on the map. But Chicago has many things that make it superior to most, if not all other cities. For one it has a unique lack of swagger. Many might disagree, those who do have never been to New York, Philadelphia, London, Berlin or even Los Angeles and Atlanta. People in those cities truly do believe their own press. Chicago just knows it is special and goes about its day trying to prove that to no one.

Travel is important to the writer – no matter what level of success – and to this fledgling storyteller the Toddlin’ Town holds a special endearment. It was the place chosen by the original Elmer as an adopted hometown. Dad sold hats to gangsters and stars from a little shop on the near South Side. There was a time when Milton Berle, among the most famous Chicago natives,walked into the radio station and was more than shocked when our Jamaican receptionists asked: “Can I tell Mr. Alexander who is here to see him?” What followed was a classic vaudevillian double-take and dad was there, in the lobby registering people to vote, just in the right place to catch the natural comic riff. “Hey! That’s Milton Berle! Uncle Milty, don’t you know TV's first real Star?” He gently scolded the receptionist. Dad always scolded with either a smile or a well worn paddle used in his gym class and on his infrequently wayward sons. If not for Elmer Collins being in there to engage the aging star in requisite sycophancy, the visit might have soured very quickly. As it was, Uncle Milty insisted on dad coming back to the studio to, “teach these amateurs a thing or two about respect.”

Yes, back in Chicago dad sold Milton Berle a hat, or at least they both agreed that such an association existed.

Michigan Avenue: probably the most famous street west of Fifth Avenue and deserving of the title The Miracle Mile. It is not just the shops and energy, it is the sense that this is a destination for nearly everyone strolling along the wide boulevard. But driving it is something else entirely. Before crossing the ornate bridge from the south, there is a stream of traffic that flows from cross-town left turns into a stop-and-go ballet that would give the poet Virgil the shivering vapors. Fortune favors the bold in Loop Friday afternoon traffic. And there we were, the driver with cell phone at his cheek seeking the best way over to Columbus Avenue from the only family in town.

That’s when the towtruck driver leaned his chin on the bright-yellow windowsill and said, “’gainst the law talking on the cell phone while you driving.” It was a clear admonishment that cut through the traffic sounds and even the conversation that was abruptly ended. “Where you from? Ohio?” he maneuvered to the front of the sedan and glanced at the plate. “Probably against the law there, too. We don’t like y’all in Ohio no way. Y’all stole the election.” The one sided exchange was pumped out between braking and glancing at the bus in front of him. One would think that between the two concentration-averting activities, the thing in which the Traffic Control Division employee was engaged was far more dangerous than a quick call to find out when the was the best time to make a right off Michigan. But no.

Yet here is where Chicago is different. The driver went out of his way to show the visitors the correct route to their hotel. He even got on his hood-mounted PA to make sure the proper turns were made. Giving us grief, and making sure we had what we needed: that’s Chicago.