I
Phil stopped at the traffic signal at the head of the entrance ramp to the expressway. The Illinois Department of Transportation had installed these lights some years earlier in attempt to ease traffic congestion during rush hours. The idea was to prevent bumper-bumper traffic extending onto the expressway access streets. Drivers could be smoothed into the existing traffic jam drip by drip. Phil, although having watched numerous drivers ignore the red and green signal, dutifully stopped to wait his turn. His wait, he knew, was momentary and probably in everyone‟s better interest. The light signaled his speedy attempt to merge into traffic. This wouldn‟t be hard at 1 o‟clock in the afternoon. He shifted his speed ‟95 forest green Saturn into first gear. Hearing the transmission groan, he shifted into second, and, then, third. The four-cylinder engine began picking up speed. Fourth gear, and, then, fifth to reach the 70 mile an hour cruising speed. He‟d never be a Bobby Unser, but it was fun to pretend. The open sunroof blew through his hair what was left of it. He, frequently, looked in the rearview mirror imaging his younger days when his hair was dark, thick, and wavy. He laughed about how he learned to drive a stick shift in El Paso during two week Army reserve summer camp. His uncle lent him his beat up Ford Pinto 3 speed, gave him a quick lesson in how to get out of first gear, and, then, Phil was on his own.
Uncle Ben was a string bean of a man on a 5‟8” frame. Arguably, the smartest person in the family having earned a degree in electronics from the University of Delaware and spending his entire working career designing TV yokes. Aunt Belle was a tough little lady who had aged about ten years in the six months it took Grandpa Sam to die from lung cancer. They had 3 daughters who all looked alike but had very different personalities. Debbie was the closest in age to Phil. She got sucked into that Beatlemania crap in the sixties. Uncle Ben sent her to study art at the Boston Art Institute. When Phil and Roz went to visit, she was living a four story walk-up tenement near Fenway Park with eight or nine other people and pet mouse. Some were students. Some were transient guests, one of whom was an AWOL British merchant marine. Debbie looked deplorable wearing clothes that were past dirty. Phil couldn't decide what her disarrayed hair needed. She wore colored Beatle glasses. Clearly, she wasn't the Debbie he had grown up with. He had seen her change pretty dramatically beginning in 1963 right about the time the Beatles became popular in America. Debbie had become one of their biggest fans. Phil could never understand the connection between dirt and music. When everyone seemed to let their hair grow long, Phil‟s hair was
longish, but not long. Some of the guys had hair so long that it cascaded down their shoulders. And ratty looking beards, too. Debbie‟s friend Peter was clean shaven, with neat haircut. Of course, he was a merchant marine. They wouldn‟t let him look like a bum. Nevertheless, he looked like a hard scrabble kind of a guy and poorly educated, too. Debbie fell in love with the guy‟s cockney accent. And before he left, he got her pregnant. Debbie moved to England and renounced her US citizenship so she could take advantage of the English medical system. That was the story Phil heard. When the marriage fell apart, took an act of Congress to get Debbie back to the states since she didn't have any needed skills. Phil thought it comical that someone born in Camden New Jersey would be naturalized citizen. It played so well into a favorite joke. Why are New Yorkers always depressed? The light at the end of their tunnel is in New Jersey. Well, Debbie is adult. She had been married to a fifth generation Mexican guy who, sadly, died in a car accident. They had a daughter. Phil met her once. Cute, but shy kid. Aunt Belle care one way or the other. Not my kid, he thought at the time. He did remember, though, the time Debbie and her son Damon flew from Boston to El Paso with ten cents. Debbie had a lay over in Chicago and she didn't have enough money to pay for transportation from the airport to Phil's place on the airport shuttle. Phil lived across the street from the shuttle end point. To ride the shuttle, passengers had to pay in advance. Phil drove to the airport and picked them up. Debbie didn't bring any diapers. They stopped at a grocery store buy diapers, diaper rash ointment, and baby food. He asked himself how Uncle Ben and Aunt Belle could allow her to travel with no money? How could Debbie think appropriate to travel with a baby and ten cents? Something was drastically wrong, but in the few hours he had to visit, he knew he wasn't going to find out. In fact, he never asked. They were never close as adults even though Phil agreed to smuggle Peter into the US from Canada via Montreal. But before any plans could be made, Peter simply boarded a bus, told immigration he was a US citizen and calmly rode across the border. Peter and Debbie divorced in England. Debbie and her son haven‟t heard from Peter since. Twenty years. Phil and Roz haven‟t had much more contact with Debbie either. From playing doctor very little kids to stranger. Phil did have occasion to stay with Debbie for a few nights courtesy of Uncle Sam. His last army reserve summer camp was at Fort Bliss in El Paso. Debbie was living in an adobe ranch house without a phone in Las Cruces. No air conditioning. Little furniture. He borrowed her VW stick shift. He flooded the engine about a block from her house. Unable to restart the car, he rolled it to the curb and left. He walked back to his cousin's place, told her what happened, drank a can of pop, went into
the near empty bedroom to try to go to sleep for the night on a sheet laid on the well worn carpet. The pillow was soon soaked with his sweat. The cool desert air soon flowed through the open window, and he slept comfortably. Debbie was able to start her car, and she drove Phil back to her parent‟s apartment. Phil decided he‟d try to polish his stick shift skills. Unfamiliar with El Paso‟s terrain, Phil quickly realized that the town was positioned in mountainous foothills. He slowed at least 100 yards from a red light so he wouldn‟t have to stop on a hill fearing the car would roll backwards.
The skill of preventing the backward slide didn‟t arrive until years later when Phil bought his own stick shift. A Ford Fiesta. He liked that car so much that he bought a second one. And then, a Renault Fuego 5 speed. Some years passed before he bought the Saturn. Perhaps, a return to the wilder days of his youth, although he always was happy to drive his dad‟s automatics. His friend, Jon, had a little Chevy Monza that had a transmission on the dashboard. He shifted between low, second, and third as though he was driving a race car. He, eventually, blew second gear, and the car sat in his driveway unable to move because Jon couldn't raise the money to get it fixed. Riding around with Jon was fun while it lasted. Listening to his tall tales of his most recent sexual exploit was extremely entertaining. Jon, from somewhere in California, exploited the California dreamer surfer image to maximum potential. He was a con-man in training. Scholastically, he wasn‟t very bright, coming into the new school to try his junior year for a second time. He was tremendously charismatic, though. The girls loved his longish, sandy blonde hair, and sun tanned face. a school that boasted 2 main groups, the Ringos and Collegiates, Jon exuded Collegiate from the top of his head to the soles of his shoes even though the only college he‟d ever see would be as a visitor. The Ringos were quick with their fists, and almost everyone sported cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of their T-shirts. The girls liked their hair heavily teased. Their faces were caked with make-up. The Ringos were destined to become auto mechanics, plumbers, carpenters, and other trades people. The girls were destined become unwed mothers. Jon, being new to the school, seemed to move between the groups effortlessly.
Jon‟s veracity had been called into question on several occasions when he went on his frequent bragging sprees. Phil didn‟t believe a word he said, until one morning Jon produced what he claimed was a newly used rubber, now, yellowing, dried and crackling and stuck an envelope complete with a single pubic hair from the victim. Jon bragged about what the back seat of his car would say if only it could talk. Momentarily, Phil was envious looking
at Jon‟s proof. Phil looked at Jon through squinty eyes and back at the proffered evidence before deciding that Jon manufactured this used rubber just as he manufactured the majority of his storied sexual exploits. If that car could talk, it would blush at expecting anyone believe such lies. Jon, in all likelihood, returned to California to do whatever people when reduced to living by their wits.
Phil had to be content with Dad‟s ‟64 maroon, Rambler station wagon with a dent in the rear bumper. Phil backed into a post at the beach one night. It was tough explaining the dent. He was sure Dad would blow a gut. In fact, he did. The dent didn‟t affect how the car ran, and it was never fixed. Dent and all, Phil always considered that car a real dog!! The car had some great memories, though. Boy, that breeze from the open sunroof on the Saturn felt good blowing across his head. The cool warmth was massaging the stress right out the day. He choked on a laugh recalling how he explained away the footprints on the inside of the windshield after he borrowed the car for a date with what‟s her name. What was her name? Rhonda. Rhonda. Help, help me Rhonda. Beach Boys and fun in the sun. Today‟Chicago weather could pass for a southern California afternoon. Phil looked up at the sky. Yep, no clouds. After years of beating himself up for having missed an unexpected opportunity, he just had been too damned naïve to take advantage of a girl who was hot trot. She was almost begging for it. “Touch me, and I‟ll scratch your eyes out.” she warned with her spread legs raised on the dashboard. If only she had been wearing a dress instead of shorts. How difficult would it have been to unbutton her pants? Phil, Phil, Phil, you stupid boy. Why relive missed opportunities? Will the memory be any less frustrating? was that a learning experience that needed refreshing from time to time? Even though Phil asked her out on several occasions after that famous “footprint date”, she wouldn‟t accept. Phil ran into some guys on the golf course who knew Rhonda shortly after that. They called her a mink and claimed that if anyone couldn‟t score with her, there was something radically wrong. Phil couldn‟t concentrate on his golf game for the remainder of the round, consistently 3 putting almost every hole. Thank God that Rambler couldn't talk. It wouldn't be saying the same thing as Jon's Monza, that‟'
's for sure. Then, there was that time he was sure that he‟d be arrested for breaking curfew when the cops knocked on the Rambler‟steamed up windows one night at the reservoir where the local kids went to make out. Different girl, different circumstances. He was just moments away from losing his virginity. Probably hers, too. But the cop banging on the window, flashing his light into the back seat cold showered the whole episode. They quickly buttoned and zipped and exited the car for a moment of excruciating and embarrassing interrogation. After a quick reprimand, Phil
jumped into the driver‟s seat and drove the girl home. That Rambler wasn‟t so bad after even though it would never win any drag races from a stoplight. Nothing seemed satisfying as stream of consciousness nostalgia. That girl was a real honey. There had actually been a relationship. That second base stuff paled in relationship to the almost home run one afternoon. No one home, a shared shower. He remembered himself saying‟ “don‟worry, you can‟t screw standing up”. He believed it at the time, too. He saw himself rounding third, heading for home. The throw from outfield was strong. He slides. The play is close. He's…OUT. He wasn‟t prepared. This whole scene surprised him. Circumstances, he was sure, would have had a different outcome if only he had a plan. Redo the whole thing. Let‟s see. He knew no one would be home. He knew there would be a lot of foreplay. He could‟ve foreseen the shower. Naked. What was missing? How about a rubber. How do you get them? That was a no brainer. She worked in a pharmacy. Just some pre-planning and the outcome would have been vastly different. Instead, they both got dressed to start their foreplay, again. The unexpected orgasm startled Phil. It was his first, and the initial pleasure was replaced by embarrassment. He was sure she didn‟notice. They remained close for a time after that, but another opportunity never presented itself. Finally, they drifted apart, left to lead their lives. Perhaps, if Phil asked her to make that sensitive purchase at the pharmacy…he could only speculate that, maybe, they would have spent their lives together. It had been years since he last thought of that shower incident. Repressed pleasant memories. Was that possible? He was living proof, so, obviously, it was possible. In the final analysis, he was married for 30 years, so everything, at least for him, worked out for the best. He had heard from an old friend that she divorced her first husband after a brief marriage. She remarried and had a young daughter. No information after that. No reason for it. She was a teenage thing while his wife was real. fact, his wife was the reason for his teenage honey being just a pleasant memory.
That first date with Roz was one for the books. Five foot nothing, big tits, long reddish hair. Cute. Smallish ass. Phil hardly focused on her face. She wore a yellow outfit that highlighted all of her physical attributes. She was beautiful. No one would have put serious money that there would have ever been a second date, though. She was the real deal. Phil was a simple pretender. What would she ever see in him? He wasn‟t well built. gorgeous. He was a scholastic embarrassment. His major guaranteed a job that promised mediocre income. Phil suspected that he may have fallen in love with her at the first glance. But that first date done on the cheap, hit every low spot possible. The fifty-cent student union movie to watch a movie only Phil enjoyed. Three hundred students watching
that flick, and Phil was the only one not laughing hysterically at the story line, direction, and scoring. Kids were even poking fun at the names scrolling in the credits. Then, a free driveway dance at a fraternity house. They went to a drive-in hot dog joint afterwards. She ate. He didn‟t. The total cost was two dollars. They also had a heated discussion about that god-awful movie Phil thought should have earned an academy award. She thought so, too, under the category of “corn”. He stole a goodnight kiss, which was pretty radical for the time. Almost no one got a goodnight kiss on the first date. He called a few days later ask for another date. She couldn‟t remember who he was. After a few moments explanation, “I took you out this last Saturday,” He heard her laugh through a hand covered phone mouthpiece. She regained her composure. He had tickets for a concert. Phil thought it was either Bob Hope, The Beach Boys, or The Righteous Brothers. He wasn‟t sure which was first. But, they saw all three within a matter of months. OK, so the first time was obvious bribe. But, she could‟ve gone with anyone to see the others. Within a short time, they had become extremely close. Phil thought he proposed after the fourth date. She dismissed the overture probably thinking it was a quick attempt for sex. So far, just lengthy goodnight kisses. That was the extent of their relationship for almost eight months. heated up as Phil hoped it would. Pre-planning was still not his forte. Everything in this relationship appeared to occur either accidentally, or on the spur of the moment. Even Phil‟s for real proposal happened during a fight. He forgot why they were fighting, but remembered that they had just finished studying and were taking a break in the dormitory‟second floor snack bar. Suddenly, he recalled, she was upset that he refused to introduce her to his family. They had been dating for eighteen months, and he wouldn‟t bring her home to meet mom and dad. Most particularly, grandma was visiting from out of town. What an appropriate time to bring her to meet everyone, even his younger sisters. Was ashamed of her, she wondered out loud. He was more concerned that once she met his parents that would be the end of that. There was a reason he only visited home when campus closed due to holidays such as Thanksgiving , Christmas, or spring break. He came home for the summer but spent very little time there. Finally, Phil relented. She met the family, and much to Phil‟s relief, the visit was too short for anything unpleasant to happen. Mom could‟ve asked, “What does your dad do?” The fact that he didn‟t own a business that mom had heard about was a red flag. The fact that there was a fourteen-year gap between her and her youngest brother was a red flag. The fact that her mother grew up Louisiana was a red flag. The fact that her family attended a different synagogue was a red flag. The fact that she was only five feet tall was red flag. The fact that she wore a yellow blouse was a red flag. Dad was more reserved voicing concern that nothing interrupted
Phil‟s education. He had to graduate. He had to stay in school until the war was over. Phil and his father shared the same goal. Mom wasn‟t going to be happy. Period. They got married, and all the red flags were just rehashed garbage. Phil marveled, though, at how much his mind scrolled through history during the time it took to listen to just one oldie-but-goodie song. Amazing how a hot cigarette ash up the sleeve of his suit jacket could bring him back to reality. He‟d remember not to smoke with the car window opened.
That oldies station was great for those moments when Phil wanted to regress back to his youth of the Sixties. His first love, his first real kiss, the making out and petting, hickies, the endless succession of high schools and the pride he took in being able to quickly assimilate into the regional teenage cultures. The conflicted feelings about the Vietnam War and John Wayne patriotism. My country right or wrong. Bullshit. But, in the meantime, let‟s bomb those little bastards to smithereens except good kids were coming home dead for the effort. Ironically, the one kid Phil knew who came home dead was the Randolph undertaker‟s kid. The kid was a good ball player. Like most of the kids on that high school ball team, he was an asshole. Still, that did not justify him getting killed. What was he, 19, 20 years old? He‟d been dead 30 years. What a waste. We were probably that fight to give some kind of credibility to the French. They got their asses kicked at Dien Bien Phu. They got their asses kicked in WW I and WW II. We were still paying them back for helping us beat the British during the Revolutionary War. And what was the country to gain once, or if, we won? So, let‟s go to college, try to forget about that goddamed war, and get a good education so we can get a good job to begin our path towards making millions. Hooray!! Love the Beatles, The Supremes, The Temptations, The Four Tops, The Turtles, Elton John, Crosby, Stills Nash, and Young. The Drifters, Credence Clearwater Revival, The Beach Boys, The Righteous Brothers, The Rolling Stones. The list was endless. Each song brought back one poignant memory after another. The pleasure of the memories was almost orgasmic. Even some of the bad memories brought back the desire to return to that moment to, somehow, manipulate the outcome. Change the bad outcome to good. To re-enact the episode so that, rather than being speechless and looking like a total ass, he could‟ve quipped with just the right words for the moment, and redeem himself. “If I had only said… In all the times I fought that kid Wilmington, why couldn‟t I find it in myself to punch him in the nose as hard as I could?” “Why were all of our fights just wrestling when I knew he outweighed me and was taller? Stupid!!” Phil hated that kid for a lot of years until he realized he was investing far too much energy in someone he hadn‟t seen or spoken to in nearly three decades. Phil couldn‟
understand how stream of consciousness worked but was surprised that there was any connection between his love and joy of his life and some kid who was Phil‟s biggest nemesis when he was fourteen. Probably, it was just a function of the random playing songs running the entire decade of the „60‟s. He changed the station. Phil focused on the Limbaugh‟s politics and the daily topic.
The posted double nickel sign of the Seventies passed in a blur. His last ticket cost him $and an 8-hour driving school class run by one of the most tyrannical women he ever met. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe bun. The collar of her dress stopped just under her chin. Her gaunt appearance yelled, BITCH. Phil was not disappointed. Phil had decided be as non-participative as possible until this bitch threatened to eject him and make him come back another time. It was bad enough having to waste an entire day not being able call on any customers, but the prospect of wasting another day sickened him. His ever-present sense of urgency made him hyperventilate, and his blood pressure to rise to stroke levels, he imagined. Pretend to pay attention. He received his “certificate of attendance”, made sure she checked his name for having satisfactorily completed the “class”, and flipped her off as he left the room. He looked carefully to safely merge into the middle lane seeing cars traveling much faster on the far left. Chicago driving at its best. Rush droned on the radio on one of the 3 pre-set stations. Country radio had been a favorite for almost 20 years. Phil had gotten disillusioned with an earlier version of talk radio. He had spent most of his adult life in the financial services industry, in the sales and sales management of life and health insurance. One morning, the talk show host recounted a recent tragedy of a trucker who died in an auto accident. He left a young wife and three small children. Impoverished. The talk show host began soliciting contributions for this, now poor, family ending his comments with, “and isn‟t this what Chicago is all about?” Phil thought, “I hope to hell this isn‟t what Chicago is all about. Chicago isn‟t about shifting personal responsibility onto the shoulders of an unexpecting public. Chicago is about accepting the responsibilities you voluntarily undertake. I have enough to support my own family. I don‟t want to support yours. Buy some damned insurance if you don‟t have the cash in the bank to bankroll your family if your income permanently stops.” That was the last time Phil listened to WGN except for the Cubs broadcast. That was 1975.
Country music caught his attention because the songs told stories of people dealing with some type of crisis. Somewhere along the line, Phil had become an urban cowboy complete with a huge silver belt buckle of an American eagle, boots, and a white Stetson. The
thought of a Jewish cowboy often caused Phil to chuckle silently. It was a joke he shared only with himself particularly when he saw his friends shake their heads in disbelief at his manner of casual dress. The story lines of the country music complete with steel guitars, mandolins, and nasally singers spoke of man against man, man against nature, man against God. Or of enjoying simple pastural beauty. Not too much talk, not too much preaching. Always a lot of horsing around. The afternoon show on Fridays ended with the DJ asking the listeners “to give an hour to God to thank him for the many blessings you enjoyed during the week.” Not a bad idea. Although the DJ was talking about going to church, Phil knew the synagogue was an appropriate place to give thanks, too. In fact, his synagogue attendance increased dramatically. On most Friday nights, his wife and three young children accompanied him to synagogue to pray even though the kids squirmed through most of the hour and 15 minute service. The lighting of Shabbat candles and the prayer welcoming the Sabbath also enhanced Friday night dinners. Then, a blessing for bread and wine before eating dinner. There was never wine at the table so the words “Coca Cola” were substituted. “Thank you God for Coca Cola” instead of “fruit of the vine.” The kids knew the difference, and it became a family inside joke. Phil reasoned that God would understand why he wasn‟t endorsing the consumption of any type of alcoholic beverage his impressionable children.
The radio program was interrupted. Rush‟s normal daily diatribe railing the failings Clinton, Gore, Lieberman, and Daschle was the food for conversational topics with friends and Rush opponents. Hardly a day went by when Phil didn‟t listen to Rush for at least minutes just to get the gist of the conversation. Was the topic the flip-flop Lieberman showed on affirmative action? Was it Clinton‟s impending impeachment? Or perhaps, Gore‟s lack of charisma. The Vice President‟s message may have had some relevancy, but the audience had either gone home out of boredom or simply fallen asleep. And Daschle, from the fair state of South Dakota where there were more sheep than registered voters. His mantra was Republican underhandedness. The Republicans had a responsibility to pay attention to Democratic issues because that is what the majority must do to appease the minority. Every now and again, Chappaqua came into the conversation. Would Clinton ever spend one moment in that charitably donated house with Hillary? The Clintons professed poverty. Clinton‟s legal fees because of Paula Jones, and Monica were astronomical. Where did they get the down payment for a house that they bought for over million dollars. Who was giving them the mortgage? And Hillary was amassing a war chest for a run for Senate from New York. Daily fodder. Food for thought. A day much
like every other day on the radio. Until the radio show was interrupted for a fast breaking news story.
“Just in. A shooting in the quiet Evanston neighbor targeted ex-Northwestern University basketball coach, Ricky Byrdsong. Six others were shot in Albany Park. The police believe the shooter is the same person. More later”.
“Why in the hell would anyone want to shoot that guy? He‟s walking through the neighborhood he lives in with his kids, and some guy decides to shoot him? I didn‟t even think he still lived in Chicago after his stint with Northwestern ended. What a nutty guy. Not much of a coach if you looked at his record. But to shoot him? Must be drug related. Nah. The guy was a basketball coach. But he did do some zany things while on the court. can‟t believe someone would shoot that guy. And with his kids in tow. Probably running down the street to flag down the ice cream man.” With those thoughts, Phil felt incredible depression settle over him. An inexplicable depression based on someone didn‟t know, personally, probably would never have met, and someone who played no part in Phil‟s every day life. Phil felt uncomfortable with the feeling having taken pride for years for developing thick calluses over his emotions. He reasoned that was the result spending years in sales separating business from personal rejection.
When he finally arrived home, he was surprised to find everyone there, his wife and 3 kids. Normally, his wife was showing property, but she, surprisingly was home. His daughter and sons were grown and out of the house. The dogs were happy to see him jumping around vying for attention until they started fighting with each other. Phil bent over petting each the fifteen pounds of white fluff. The growling stopped as the dogs retreated into the living room to curl up on the couch. After a extra long kiss for his wife, she asked, “Everything alright?”
“Sure.” And Phil sat down for dinner trying to dismiss the events of the day.
The next day started bright and early. He didn‟t need the alarm clock. He had already been up three times during the night for that ten-foot run to the toilet. He had asked the doctor about his inability to sleep the whole night through. The doctor suggested he not drink anything after 8 PM. Didn‟t do any good. Turn off the lights at 11. Up at 1, 3:30, and before he finally gave up and began preparing for work at 7:30. Shave, brush teeth, not
forgetting to floss, and a nice warm shower that usually lasted fifteen or twenty minutes. Put in contacts. He walked into the closet hoping to find clean underwear in the drawer. He vaguely remembered that he had one set left. He was good in getting the dirty clothes into the dirty clothes hamper. His wife was good in doing the wash, transferring the clean, wet clothes into the dryer, and dumping them into a his and hers pile. Phil didn‟t see a basket full of unfolded clothes. So, he knew everything was already in the drawers even though didn‟t fold his clothes. This time. Normally, they split the responsibility. Sometimes, Phil got unexpected gifts. Like having his clean underwear folded and put away. He dressed his normal business casual attire. He had a nice collection of ties that were neatly folded a drawer. His suits still hung in the dry cleaners, see through plastic, keep away from children bags. Mostly to keep the dust from accumulating on the suit jacket shoulders. He didn‟t need to wear a suit and tie to talk about washroom sanitation services. This morning, though, he was meeting an old business acquaintance just to rehash old times when they were both in the financial services and insurance business. Phil suspected there would be attempt to lure him back into the business. No way in hell. But he liked the idea of a free cup of coffee and a sweet roll at the neighborhood hangout.
He walked into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and removed the jugs of orange juice and milk, He poured himself a giant glass of juice. He imagined that somehow the slug citric acid helped him jump start the day. He made a pot of coffee. Usually it was a little weaker than his wife liked. She claimed his coffee looked like pish. Anyone peeing that color needed to run to the nearest emergency room. But he understood her meaning. She didn‟t like seeing the bottom of her cup when the coffee cup was full. He put any extra tablespoon of coffee into the filter, added the water and continued making his breakfast once he walked to the front door to get the morning paper. Returning to the kitchen, he poured himself a large bowl of Frosted Flakes, added a little bit of milk, and sat down. The headlines screamed what he already knew about the shootings the day before. What didn‟t know was that the suspect also shot some Korean kid in Indiana and 6 kids in the Albany Park neighborhood. Even the sweetness of the cereal couldn‟t mask the sour headlines. The Korean kid was dead. The kids in Albany Park were not injured seriously. “Hell, they were shot”, he thought. Injuries weren‟t serious. Even a non-life threatening gunshot hurts like hell. And these were kids. They probably all went into shock and didn‟realize what happened. The endomorphines or whatever blocks pain probably kicked So, maybe, they would be alright. Imagine walking down the street. Ten years old. Not care in the world unless you were coming home late for dinner. Or your report card
showed, again, that you weren‟t much of a student. And, then, some asshole drives up and shoots you and five of your friends. You and your buddies fall over. One begins crying. Some grown ups run over. There is something warm, red and sticky on your hands. Some lady starts screaming. The men take their handkerchiefs and try to stop the blood. Sammy‟lips are white. His upper lip is raised over his teeth. He tries to moisten his lower lip with his tongue. Freddie hasn‟t opened his eyes. Jerry is squeezing his leg really hard. The men don‟t let the ten year old sit up so he can‟t see his other friends. The paramedics arrive. Everyone talking at the same time. What a mess. It‟s worse at the hospital. Parents are already there. No smiles. Mothers crying. Fathers with teary eyes. No brothers or sisters. Last minute babysitters. Doctors and nurses running every which way. Some guy rolls Jerry in one direction. Another guy rolls Freddie in another. Soon, someone takes the year old into surgery to remove the bullet and repair whatever damage was done. Most likely, the whole scene from start to finish took no more than thirty minutes. No physical death but, surely, a death of innocence for six kids, their families, and friends. Phil shook the imaginary scene and the imaginary names from his head but knew he wasn‟t far from the truth. “Hope the cops catch that prick soon”. Breakfast done, Phil sat in his office ready begin the morning‟s activities before he had to leave for his 10:30 appointment.
He arrived a few minutes early, saw a few tables occupied by friends, shmoozed for moment with each before sitting at a booth. He intentionally sat in a booth where his favorite waitress was stationed. Jackie had worked at the restaurant for about 5 years, figured. The breakfast rush was over. Jackie looked tired, as usual, with a wisp of her reddish hair falling over her eyes. She needed a new beautician. One who wouldn‟t chop her hair short. Maybe, she cut it herself to save money. The restaurant waitress outfit saved her on wardrobe costs. Sensible tennis shoes from Walmart. A little chubby. Too much starch in her diet. Tube steaks, too. Always a smile. Over the years, there was little about her personal life he didn‟t know about. Not that he pried. But stuff just popped into idle conversation.
“Good morning, sweetie. How‟s things?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old. My son‟s graduating eighth grade. He‟s going camp this summer for a few weeks before going to visit his father. He‟s growing up to be good kid. And taller than me already. Good grades. In fact, honor roll. Certainly doesn‟take after his father or me. What‟s doing by you?
“Oh, you know,” Phil replied breaking into a smile. “Life‟s a bitch…”
“And, then, you die,” they said simultaneously laughing.
Jackie didn‟t know much about Phil except, on occasion, he brought his wife for breakfast. Roz could be counted on ordering the same thing. Lox. No onions. Plain bagel. Poppy seeds promised digestive problems. Every once in a while, he‟d bring his kids when they had off from school. So, the whole family had a chance to meet Jackie over the years. Phil knew enough about her from his brief chats between coffee refills to know that she had one hell of a work ethic necessary to raise a couple of kids as a single mom. And, then, too, Phil was a generous tipper.
Finally, his friend showed up. He always looked beefy even though he wasn‟t. His hair had thinned somewhat since Phil last saw him. His mustache made him look disheveled although he imagined himself a fashion plate. Italian suits with Italian shoes. Italian socks, too. Phil knew that the guy‟s schedule made him a mandatory ten minutes late to every appointment he ever made. It was as though he had to make some kind of grand entrance. Even in a restaurant where no one knew he was late. And if anyone did know, they didn‟care. You could tell that he was aware whether anyone noticed him as he entered. He paused at the front desk where patrons paid their bills for a moment, looked around to see any of the strangers were making eye contact with him before he proceeded over to Phil‟table. His ass had not firmly made contact with the bench before he shouted loudly enough for the entire restaurant to hear, “Can I get service, here? Where‟s the waitress?” By ten thirty in the morning, the breakfast crowd had left to begin their business day. So, there really was almost no one to hear him making a total ass of himself except for a table really senior citizens who, from the loudness of their conversation, were all hard of hearing.
“Will you never lose that New York bullshit?” Phil asked. “How long you been Chicago? Twenty years? And you still act like a prick. And who picked out your shirt and tie?” This was Phil‟s usually lighthearted banter as he attempted to make his friend feel self-conscious even if it were just for a moment.
“What‟s the matter with this tie? Armani. Cost a lot of money”.
“What color shirt is that? Mustard? And the tie doesn‟t match.”
”Since when did you get so fashion conscious. It doesn‟t even look like you‟re working today”. Ed peered under the table. “Blue jeans?”
“People wouldn‟t take me seriously if I walked around in a business suit. That‟s like the time I drove out to Ogle County to meet a farmer. He put me into his nasty, dirty pick truck and drove me out to a muddy field. He asked me to help him put a new born calf into the back of his truck so he could take it back to the barn for vaccinations. I was wearing three-piece suit at the time. I knew the guy was laughing himself sick. And I didn‟t sell him anything, either.
“So, get me up to date. What are you doing?”
“Selling washroom sanitation services,” Phil said matter of factly.
“Huh? What the fuck is that? You go from high finance to toilet bowls?”
“Urinals, too. Besides, what kind of high finance is insurance and mutual funds?
“You were one of the best in Chicago. A good teacher, too. Look it. Don‟t be such a dumb fuck. I need you in my operation. I got a bunch of green agents who don‟t know shit from shinola. Right now, I don‟t have time to pee. Joint fieldwork, teaching, administration. even have my wife at the office helping with the paper work. I‟d like to hire a secretary, but I don‟t have time to interview anyone. I got a great supervisory contract. You‟ll get overrides on every new guy in the place plus a salary plus benefits. You‟ll probably earn six figures”.
“Ed, everyone starting a new thing probably will earn six figures. But almost no one does. If I know you, with your New York bullshit, you hired everyone will the same “you‟probably earn six figures” knowing damned well that almost no one will even last a year. Most won‟t make it three months. I got tired of seeing these parades of hopefuls passing front of my eyes. I told them what to do. I coached them to reinforce what I told them. went on prospecting and sales calls to show them what to do. I laughed with them, cried with them, and, sometimes, prayed with them. You know my results? The same as if
didn‟t do a damned thing. Where was their six-figure income? If they ever had a chance make that kind of money, it certainly wasn‟t with me or in our industry.”
“You‟re selling yourself short. I can name a half dozen guys right off the top of my head who owe their success directly to you.” Jackie came over to take their order. “It‟s about time you got over here. Isn‟t anyone working today?” Phil looked at Jackie and simply rolled his eyes. “You got a pecan roll?” Jackie began writing.
“You want that toasted?”
“I didn‟t say I wanted it. I just asked if you had any”.
“You want a pecan roll?”
“Yeah, toasted and not too dark. And decaf coffee.”
“How can you be so hyper without drinking regular coffee?” Phil asked.
“Can you imagine how impossible I‟d be if I drank regular. I would‟ve jumped down this little girl‟s throat already,” Ed said tilting his head slightly in Jackie‟s direction.
“I thought you already had. Jackie, let me have an order of dry wheat toast, would you please? And could you see if there‟s any blackberry jelly back there? And, oh, my friend‟a jerk.” Jackie‟s forty two year old face broke into a smile as she turned to leave. She returned a moment later with black and red coffee pots, carefully poured the coffee so none would spill, and then, went to the kitchen to turn in the orders. “Nice lady. Worked here long time”.
“Who gives a shit. Listen to me, Phil. You can‟t turn me down. Get your head out of your asshole. You can start on Monday. Come on over to the office with me to fill out some forms”.
“I didn‟t renew my license”.
“Why the hell not? You can‟t be that big of a dumb fuck. No one throws thirty years down the drain”.
Jackie walked over with a tray holding two plates. One with wheat toast, and one with toasted pecan roll. Also on the tray were the two coffee pots that she used to refill their cups.
“Didn‟t I tell you not to toast this too dark.?” Ed picked up one of the halves of roll and threw it down onto the plate in disgust. “You burned the fuckin‟ thing.”
“I‟ll get you another. I‟m sorry,” Jackie blurted out embarrassingly.
“Hold it”. Ed gently grabbed her hand as she attempted to remove the plate with the toasted roll. “I‟ll take that. Here, Ed, you take the toast. I really don‟t have all morning to talk with you.” Jackie refilled the coffee cups and retreated back into the kitchen. Phil continued his line of thought.
“That‟s exactly what I did. I wanted a complete life style change. You know for my whole life all I did was talk to people about insurance. From the moment I graduated college that is all I did. In fact, I started during my sophomore year in college. I didn‟t have the opportunities you did to sample other types of jobs. You can‟t imagine how I tired I got forcing people to accept their personal responsibilities to their families. I worked to grow my business so I got real good in business insurance. I got tired of trying to force business owners to accept their responsibilities to their families, business partners, stockholders and employees. I got to the point where I cared more about helping everyone live up to their responsibilities than they did. If that‟s not crazy, I don‟t know what is? And then, to add the stress of new sales reps not wanting to work as hard as I wanted them to? Thirty years of that and I knew that the stone in the cemetery would not include my occupation along side my name. I retired from the business, Ed. That‟s all there is to it.” Phil removed small circular plastic encased mirror with a handle from his shirt pocket. “See this? I take potential customers into their bathrooms, open a stall and stick this mirror under the lip the toilet. I show them the encrusted shit that they can‟t get their busboys or janitors scrub away. That‟s assuming they even were aware of the accumulated crud. I show them the pee stains underneath the urinals. And then I say, “Now do you understand why you bathroom smells like a bathroom even immediately after you clean it? For ten bucks
week per toilet, this is the service my company will perform. It‟s easy, it‟s quick, and if the guy says no, I hit him up again in a few weeks. Or maybe I don‟t. But I can go into any restaurant, any small business and almost guarantee that no one is sticking his hands into toilet bowl”.
“You do that?”
Nah. The company hires down and outers. Convicts on parole. Minimum labor jobs requiring minimum intelligence. Talk to the guys like they‟re human beings, and most will do a pretty thorough job until they fall off the wagon or go back to jail. Some just disappear. But there is a plentiful supply of those guys around and I don‟t have to invest damned thing into them. I don‟t care about their families. I don‟t care about their former lives. I don‟t even care whether they do their jobs. That‟s the owner‟s problem. I make my money, and, at the end of the day, I‟m gone. I go home. I turn off. No stress. I go to adult education stuff at the synagogue. I go to free concerts in the park. No nighttime business appointments. I might not be making as much money as I had been before, but, I‟ve never been happier. Spend a lot of time with my wife, too. And, let me tell you something, Ed. Sex, with your wife in your fifties is great!”
“Sex with my wife?” Ed laughed.
Phil winked and smiled. “I‟ve been told from several sources that your wife is pretty good. It‟s been so long, though, you probably forgot.”
“OK, meatball. Go back to your toilets. But you know it‟s not hard to get relicensed.” They shook hands “Hey, Jackie, how about a check?” Ed bellowed from across the room. Jackie walked over promptly.
“Everything alright?
Yeah, just dandy,” Ed replied. He grabbed the check off of the table. “Next time, it‟yours. Let‟s not be strangers. It was too long since the last time.”
“Leave her a good tip. Combat pay for having to wait on you.” Ed threw down a five, nodded to Jackie who had returned to the rear of the restaurant and walked outside leaving
Phil to finish the last of his coffee. Phil waited an extra few minutes assuring himself that Ed had driven away thinking how little the guy had changed since he saw him a few years ago.
Phil got into his car. He caught the front end of the news. As he turned on the ignition, heard the newscaster say, “Ricky Byrdsong who was shot last night outside his Evanston home, has died.”
II
It was as though the wind got knocked out of him. Was he hyperventilating? He felt the same as the time Fat Howie fell on him when he was ten. The guys were playing the normal afternoon game of cowboys and Indians. Everyone was armed with either air rifles or cap guns. As most of the games often ended, an argument ensued.
“I shot you. Fall down.”
“You missed.”
“If this were a real gun, you‟d fall down.”
Then, a fistfight. This particular day, Fat Howie had joined in the game. He lived on the next block and frequently walked over because there weren‟t any kids in the building where he lived. He began fighting along with everyone else. It was more wrestling than anything else. No one ever got bloody unless it was accidental. Phil had been knocked down and was sitting on the grass looking for his cap gun. Someone tripped Fat Howie and he fell onto Phil‟s back pushing his head between his legs. Knocked the wind right out of him. For a moment, Phil thought he was going to die. He felt hot tears streaming from his eyes. “Good God, I‟m crying in front of the guys,” Phil thought in horror. “I‟ll never live this down.”
“Phil, you OK?” Fat Howie had a genuine look of concern on his face.
“Yeah, I‟ll be fine, fatso. You squished the tears right out of my eyes,” Phil laughed wiping the wet from his cheeks. Phil got to his feet taking a couple of deep breaths. The sing-song
taunt rang in his ears. Fatty fatty two by four can‟t get through the bathroom door. So does it on the floor, fatty, fatty two by four. Ta ra ra ra boom dee ay. Ta ra ra ra boom dee ay. Ta ra ra ra boom dee ay. Ta ra ra boom dee ay.
“No one calls me fatso.” Fat Howie had turned bright red. He pushed Phil backwards. This was a fight Phil knew he couldn‟t win. All Fat Howie had to do was jump on him with of his two hundred plus pounds. In fact, Fat Howie was so fat, he couldn‟t learn how to ride a bike because he couldn‟t balance. The truth was, though, that his parents couldn‟t afford to buy him a bike and that was why he lived in the apartments on the next block.
“OK, you‟re not fat. But you weigh more than all of us together,” Phil said pointing to the other four boys who had been playing in the game. Everyone began laughing except, course, Fat Howie, who was still boiling mad. Another moment passed. Fat Howie calmed down accepting yet another barrage of insults because of his weight. He should‟ve been used to Phil‟s comments, but they still stung. And he knew that fighting wouldn‟t make him thinner. But the guys liked him enough to let him play despite his size.
Phil hadn‟t thought of that afternoon in years. The only reason it came to his mind was the winded feeling that had suddenly overcome him. He actually puffed his cheeks out. What strange response to the fact that Ricky Byrdsong was murdered the prior evening in front his children. The feelings and thoughts he had the day before swirled through his head as they were brand new. Ricky Brydsong, a failed Northwestern University basketball coach. Ricky Brydsong, the guy who ran halfway up the field house stairs during a game he was coaching. Nervous breakdown right in front of the TV camera. Ricky Byrdsong, husband and father. Son. Employee. Good neighbor? Walking his kids down the street in the neighborhood where he lived. A blue car drives by. Some guy shoots, and, somehow, hits the intended target. But Ricky Brydsong? What was this, some kind a mob hit? Nah. The guy was black. How many black guys are in the mob? None, Phil thought. Just some asshole with a gun randomly shooting at a guy walking along the street. A nice warm July night. A couple of kids in tow probably chasing down the ice cream man with the same obnoxious, monotonous, tinny music coming from the truck alerting every kid for blocks around that the ice cream man was coming. Phil loved the ice cream man. In the Spring, the ice cream man parked outside the school waiting for the afternoon bell to ring. Hundreds of kids would converge on him within minutes. In addition to the ice cream, for few pennies more, you could buy a tin bird whistle or foot long, bendable balloons, the kind
you can make into hats and things. A couple times a week, Phil had enough money to buy ice cream after school. Ice cream may have been one of Phil‟s big weaknesses. One set grandparents lived across from Sokoloff‟s. Friday night, after dinner, Grandpa and Phil would walk across the street to buy a Dixie Cup. Phil remembered the first time he realized vanilla was made from vanilla beans.
“Grandpa, my ice cream is dirty.”
“Vanilla comes from vanilla beans that are crunched up. What you see are the remains the bean. It won‟t hurt you,” replied the old man.
Or he‟d go to Barson‟s with Grandpop Sam. Barson‟s would coat the ice cream cone with so many jimmies that you couldn‟t see the ice cream. Phil couldn‟t count how many times he went to the ice cream truck after school, Sokoloff‟s or Barson‟s. Never did anyone ever shoot at him. No one even tried to steal the ten cents he clutched tightly in his hand. In fact, until Grossman‟s, the pharmacy down the street, took out its soda fountain, Phil got two scoops for his dime. Phil began getting sick to his stomach with grief over this stranger and his kids. He didn‟t cry when he found out Tommy had died from colon cancer. He was just in disbelief that the toughest kid in the neighborhood could die from anything. There wasn‟t a kid in the neighborhood Tommy couldn‟t beat up. But he wasn‟t obnoxious about it. He wasn‟t a bully. Just confident. At Christmas, his mom would let the kids take candy canes from the tree in their living room. Tommy was a good guy who once flipped Phil over his back in a neat judo move. Phil landed with a resounding thud knocking the wind out of him. He just laid there, dazed.
“Get up. You‟re not dead. Move before I kick you,” Tommy said nudging Phil lightly with his foot. He didn‟t cry about Tommy, but he felt like he was going to cry about this Byrdsong guy. There wasn‟t an explanation.
The news story continued. Six Jewish students in the Albany Park neighborhood were also shot and wounded. No fatalities. But Indiana University student, Won Joon Yoon was shot and killed near the Bloomington Indiana campus. Police found the assailant, a Benjamin Smith, from suburban Wilmette and New Trier High School graduate. As police closed to arrest him, he fatally shot himself. It has been determined that Benjamin Smith was self-proscribed advocate of Matthew Hale, founder of the World Church of the Creator.
There will be a memorial service for Ricky Byrdsong at St. Mary‟s Church in Evanston Monday at 11 AM.
How could a suburban kid from a liberal family decide to go on a killing spree? Phil was baffled. So were the police. Here was a kid who grew up in affluence. Went to school with tons of Jewish kids. Indian and Asian kids sprinkled the landscape at the high school attended. And who in the hell was the World Church of the Creator and Matthew Hale? Every now and then, a surprise occurs in a community. Laurie Dann shot up a grade school in Winnetka. But it was determined that she had mental problems. In and out of psychiatric hospitals. Sometimes medicated to control the bi-polar problems she experienced. On one Spring day, she was out of control and went on a shooting spree killing an eight year old, wounding several others before killing herself. An afternoon when a sleepy suburban Chicago community locked every household door and counted heads making sure all the kids were accounted for. Somehow, the wrong guys influenced Benjamin Smith. Really bad guys who had this cockeyed notion that America was supposed to be a white-only, Protestant country. How could they figure that with all the people in the world, God gave all the intelligence to only one group of people in one country? How could these loony-tunes negate all the social, medical, and scientific advances given the world by people from all over? Phil was gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white from anger. “Stand up,” he told himself. “Don‟t let these people get away with this”.
“Grandpop, what happened to your mother and father and brothers and sisters? How come Tanta was the only one besides you to come to America? “ Phil had asked the questions couple of times but never got an answer. Grandpop died when Phil was thirteen. He was old enough to understand, but the questions remained unanswered.
“Grandpop, are we Polish?”
“Russian. Sometimes, Polish. Who won which war. I left Poland.” The discussion ended. Phil was left is fill in the blanks. No word from anyone after about 1941. Those rotten sonsofbitches killed off the family because of hate. Now, a new age hate monger, Benjamin Smith, was attempting to do the same thing. His mentor, Matthew Hale was encouraging murder in the name of…religion?
“Hey Jew-boy,” called Phil‟s once friend, Billy. Billy had moved frequently during his formative years because his dad worked for Dupont. Every few years, the family moved. Most recently, Billy had lived in Connecticut. Now, their paths crossed in Delaware. 1960, some politicos were concerned that Jack Kennedy, a Catholic, might be elected president. Would his allegiance be to the United States or to the Pope? Never mind that the guy had been a World War II hero and a Pulitzer Prize author. Billy had related a story about how his family disowned a cousin who dared marry a Catholic girl.
“Religion doesn‟t make a difference if the guy is capable and competent”, Phil remarked one of their frequent political debates. “Nixon isn‟t as well spoken. His vision for the country isn‟t as well formed as Kennedy‟s.” Their friendship ended in a flash. Phil was unprepared for the anti-Semitic comments. Billy was bigger and stronger. Phil stood up his bullying. Encounters, often several times a week, resulted in Phil being bruised in every fight. He figured this Billy kid was a nut case. Who wants to fight that often? Evidently, Billy did. Phil didn‟t get many licks in, but he wouldn‟t give in. He wouldn‟t run away. The kid wanted to fight. Well, then, Phil would oblige him. It wasn‟t that Phil was stranger to fighting. One afternoon, as Phil walked home from school, he looked behind him and recognized Billy‟s characteristic bouncing style of walking before he actually recognized Billy. There was going top be a fight, just like almost every day. This time, Phil threw his books into the freshly fallen snow. Rather than waiting for Billy to walk up him, Phil rushed him and jumped at him from about 2 feet away. The 2 of them fell over with Phil on top. Phil didn‟t just start punching. He was hammering. After a moment unconscious beating on the guy, Phil stopped and looked a Billy‟s bloody face. He was scared at what he obviously was capable of doing, but not sorry for the beating he just administered. He got off the kid‟s chest, walked over to his books, and picked them up one by one watching to see if Billy would move. He just laid in the snow. As Phil began walking over the where the kid was lying, he began moving. And moaning. Thank god, didn‟t kill him, Phil thought. His nose will never be the same, though. Too bad, Phil continued thinking without remorse. All of those kid fights growing up with him losing. All those fights he provoked like the one with Fat Howie. Fat Howie smacked him hard the mouth one day, because Phil had announced to the neighborhood that he probably could him beat up. One evening, during a stick ball game, Phil got angry at Dickie and hit him the jaw. Phil broke his thumb and spent six weeks in a cast during the hottest part of the summer. Phil was a hell of a scrapper. He just didn‟t win many of the fights. In fact, didn‟t win any of them. But the thought of running never occurred to him. Except when
game required it like capture the Flag. Albany Park was an ideal location because of the huge expanse of grass, shrubs, and trees. This particular afternoon there were only nine guys, the sides were uneven. Suddenly, a lady holding a little kid by the hand walked over to Tommy. Actually, the kid wasn‟t that little. He was probably eight.
“Can my son play?” she asked. Phil and the rest of the gang crowded around the lady and her son waiting for Tommy‟s response. It didn‟t seem like much of a decision. One team needed one more man. This kid made the sides even. It may have occurred to some that the new kid was black. Actually, back then, he was Negro. No one cared. Tommy explained the rules of the game. He was part of the red team. He was given a piece of red cloth tuck into his belt. And there was the blue team. They all had blue pieces of cloth tucked into their belts. The boys had a real American flag, a little tattered, on a stick. Everyone knew where the flag was. The object of the game was to grab the flag, run back to your lines before someone ripped the cloth from your belt. You could wrestle and fight and whatever was necessary to keep the cloth from being ripped away. If your cloth was ripped off, you were dead. The team with the last man standing or having successfully captured the flag, won. Not a difficult game to understand, but one that definitely required understanding some basic military tactics. Like frontal assault or a flanking attack or using both simultaneously. On occasion, one guy could handle two at the same time, giving the one not fighting a chance to capture the flag. That was where Tommy‟s strength came in handy. This particular day, though, Phil and Tommy were on opposite sides. The game was a lot fun even though Phil knew that the reds were going to lose. But it was the first time Phil ever played with a Negro kid. Negroes did housework. A Negro lady from Jamaica lived Phil‟s house for a couple of years. Grace was a great lady. She had a neat accent and had statuesque manner about her. Long, willowy fingers. Kind words. Always willing to talk while she worked. She didn‟t mind stopping for a moment to give him cookies when was too little to reach them. Grace did all the housework because Phil‟s mom either wouldn‟t or couldn‟t do it. She had grown up in a household of privilege and expected that to be continued into her married life. It was. The neighbors on either side lived a more austere lifestyle. No matter what time of day, David‟s mom was always cooking something. The aromas were hard to bear because they smelled so good. Larry‟s mom wasn‟t as good cook, but the two ladies put Phil‟s mom to shame. The one dish Phil‟s mom specialized was weenie-beanie. Cook up some hotdogs. Slice them. Throw them into a pot with couple of cans of baked beans. Heat. Voila!! Weenie-beanie. So, there wasn‟t much Phil‟mom had in common with David‟s or Larry‟s other than the kids were close in age. So,
what was the big deal playing with a Negro. Nothing more than playing with one of Grace‟kids. If she had any. During Capture the Flag, it was impossible not to get a little bloody. And that kid‟s blood was as red as anyone else‟s. Phil laughed at what had become the tritest of clichés. And here was some lunatic shooting a black man because he was black. And he had to fight Billy almost every day because he was Jewish. And a lot of his family died for no good reason. Phil grew up with that simmering resentment, and, now, it was boiling over.
“Sid, are you going to that demonstration in Evanston on Monday?” Phil asked as soon he said his friend walk into the Saturday morning Torah study. Sid was a friendly cantankerous old guy probably in his 70‟s Phil guessed. They shared many of the same conservative attitudes. Just as Phil asked his question, he saw Sid‟s eyes and hand expressions asking “Nu?”
“11:00 Monday morning at St. Mary‟s. I think it‟s somewhere on Prairie north Dempster”. They settled in with their morning‟s juice and coffee and left over oneg from the night before. Hot coffee and cold cookies. If that didn‟t get your mind perking over the meaning of what the writers of Torah meant by leaving seemingly important comments out, nothing did.
At the appointed time, Phil looked for Sid in a disappointingly small crowd at the church. was the church that the Byrdsong family regularly attended. They were not present this morning, though. It was too soon after the tragedy. The Yoon family wasn‟t there either. Phil walked over to Sid, shook his offered hand, and counted the number of attendees versus the number of news people covering the event. A man who headed up a local anti-hate group was addressing the crowd, which included a young boy on a mountain bike. No mountains in Evanston. But, it seemed as though every kid had traded his ten-speed for mountain bike. Phil‟s bike had been a good old single speed Schwinn. Indestructible. so he thought. An afternoon‟s fun would be riding bikes towards a steep hill adjacent to the apartment building Fat Howie lived in. At the last moment, the kids would jump from their bikes and let them rumble down the hill riderless until they lost balance and tumbled the rest of the way down or hit a small crabapple tree on the other side of the alley. That same hill was used for winter sledding, too. The detached apartment garage roofs were great for jumping into snowdrifts. The window wells often drifted high with snow. A snow fort, little more than a three foot high tunnel could stretch for maybe ten or fifteen feet. Those
tunnels provided much needed respite from the biting winter wind. Fat Howie once got wedged in a tunnel and was forced to stand up. He wrecked the far end of the structure. But it was cause for laughs for at least a week. In the summer, they played with Blue Tip matches, the kind that you could light on the sidewalk or a pant‟s zipper on those same roofs.. Blue Tip matches made smoking stolen cigarettes just that much more pleasurable. Phil had started smoking Bel-Aires in the fifth grade and could still remember how violently he choked when he accidentally inhaled the first time.
“What‟s the matter, Philly?” Swiss asked. Everyone had a nickname. Swiss was Steve. Guinea was Barry. Pumper was Kenny. Deacon was Mark. No rhyme or reason for the names. No one knew the derivation. But they stuck. Phil was Philly. Boring.
“I swallowed the smoke,” Phil gagged.
“Stupid. You‟re not supposed to do that.” The guys laughed as Phil continued to sputter. Grandma had warned Phil that smoking would stunt his growth. Why hadn't she told him that smoking would kill him. As he coughed, he thought his death was imminent. The cigarette was still burning between his fingers. The coughing fit stopped, and Phil took another puff, this time intentionally inhaling. He began coughing, again. And he smoked for another thirty years until quitting for good one day in 1985. Cold Turkey. Gutsy. thoughts returned to the Byrdsong kids and how long it would be until they played and laughed again. He knew he was obsessing, but what better reason to obsess, he reasoned.
Out of his daydream, Phil heard Reverend Ostendorf, the leader of Center for New Community, say he was forming a motorcade to East Peoria to confront Matthew Hale. Ostendorf was not a very impressive looking man. He needed a new suit. Somewhat on the poor side but a good speaker. Very reverend-like. He condemned Benjamin Smith, the shooter. A boy who grew up in affluence who once played with Jewish and Asian kids his liberal, integrated neighborhood. A boy who, somehow, learned to hate his friends and view their very existence on earth with disgust. How could parents not see the severe shift in their son‟s attitudes? The kid must‟ve hidden the hate literature.and the CD‟s. It was painfully revealing that stuff like that was being mass-produced because there was a market for it. Weren‟t schools teaching some type of tolerance? Or were they just keeping their fingers crossed that the disparate groups didn‟t show up to school one day for the final show down. The high school version of the Gunfight at the OK Coral. Kill everyone who looked
foreign. Whatever that meant. ”Toto, I don‟t think we‟re in Kansas anymore”. WASP-ish, evidently.
Had the Smith‟s known, they would‟ve gotten their son the type of professional help needed, the type of professional help they could afford to provide. Now, while the speaker made his comments, they were privately burying their only son, a suicide, who didn‟t have the guts to stand up for his distorted beliefs. Phil wanted to join the caravan, but they were leaving immediately following this brief news conference/protest. Later that day, Phil saw the man and his local and downstate supporters in front of Matthew Hale‟s East Peoria home. The confrontation lacked excitement since the target of the drive refused to make appearance. Another demonstration of cowardice behind the pen. The guy must have learned his bravado from his mentors, Pierce and Butler. This crime had generated so much publicity that Phil was amazed at how much new information he gained just in the last few days. He had never even heard of The Turner Diaries or of Pierce and Butler. Current day hate mongers. Current day Gestapo if they thought they could get away with it.
Ostendorf was confronting the bastards insulting them embarrassing them and humiliating them. Whatever it took. The only question Phil had was how effective could a group what, five people would have on a well organized, expansive group. A group that probably had been growing without the general population being aware of it for years. Sure, everyone was aware of the vocal Neo-Nazis or the KK Klaners. But when they showed for a rally and were shown on TV, how many were there? A small handful. Never more than a dozen. But the number of sympathizers was unknown. How much money did these sympathizers contribute? How many web sites were devoted to this hate shit? “Good God,” Phil thought. “It was a wonder there weren‟t more instances of Ricky Byrdsong or James Byrd.” It didn‟t take a mathematician long to figure out that Ostendorf was badly outnumbered. And his funding? By his clothes, miniscule in comparison. So, what to do? Wring your hands in despair? Throw your hands up in defeat? Arm yourself to the teeth defend yourself against the guaranteed Armageddon? A helter-skelter race war? In a way, that would be an ideal solution. All the nation‟s minorities banding together to rid the country of these truly evil sonsofbitches. Right along the line of that poem. “They came for him but not for me. So, I did nothing. They came for the next guy. It wasn‟t me. So I did nothing. And then, they came for the next guy. Same thing. Then, they came for me, and there was no one to help me”. Yeah, it would be a great idea to kill all those fucks. Oh
well, so much for wishful thinking. Phil began hatching an inkling of an idea. What a great thought, but no way in this God‟s green earth did Phil have the experience to pull it off.
Richard was a pretty close acquaintance, but not really someone Phil considered a friend. Or at least not a friend of long standing. Mostly, they differed on most subjects that were politically based. But, then, Phil differed with most people on politics. In his crowd, wasn‟t very popular to be verbally conservative. Phil‟s friend, Linda, agreed, most of the time, but only in conversation that no one else overheard. And she never participated in mail debates. Richard did, though. And Phil went to great lengths to be as outrageously conservative as he could to elicit response from his liberal e-mail buddies. Richard, often, rose to the occasion. In fact, he had admitted to organizing college protest demonstrations. Anti-war stuff. That was the thing to do in the 60‟s. Protest the war. Phil was gung-ho war. He wanted the war effort to intensify. Maybe the goddamned thing would be over before had to go. Convoluted logic, but the war would be over in either event. The US won or the US withdrew and conceded defeat or withdrew and declared victory. Phil figured the outcome would be dependent upon whether there was still a South Vietnamese government at the end.
Today, though, the war was with these haters, and Richard could be the catalyst to getting something started in helping Phil salve his unexplainable wound. He would approach Richard with Sid at the next opportunity. He felt excited, almost exhilarated. Phil knew wasn‟t a matter of whether he could meet this self-imposed challenge, but when he would begin formulating the solution.
“Richard,” Phil shouted. He hadn‟t meant to shout, but his enthusiasm had been mounting for several days already. He found himself almost too forcibly thrusting his right hand forward. Richard replied hesitantly.
“You‟re cheerful today. What‟s going on?”
“I need your help on a project. In a nutshell, I want to respond to that Matthew Hale, Benjamin Smith thing. Sid and I went to that memorial service in Evanston earlier in the week. It would‟ve turned your stomach to see such a small turnout. I think the demonstrators didn‟t give themselves enough time to get the word out to the media and the
community at large that they were going to be there. They had a great idea with no plan. Did you see the news about their caravan?”
“Just barely.”
