A Writer''s Tale

  THESE THREE PIECES, TWO POEMS AND A WORK OF PROSE FICTION, were published in Helicon, the literary magazine of Glenbrook High School in 1961, when I was in the 9th grade. Somehow, I won a five dollar prize for one of them.

  These are printed here exactly as they were published, in spite of my strong urges to revise them.

  And I’m printing all three pieces, in spite of my almost overpowering urge to omit the Sousaphone poem.

  Enjoy.

  Or not.

  He Never Lost His Head

  Tim Harvey’d been a sad boy; He’d run away to sea. Now’s commander of a man-owar, Wounded and on his knee. The hull was blown to pieces. And most his crew was dead,

  But ol’ Tim Harvey, Well, he never lost his head. He upped and fired the cannon And he sank the enemy. He hopped into a dinghy And he made far out to sea.

  His food was almost not And the sun was bloody hot. And though his body Was filled with lead, Ol’ Tim Harvey, Well, he never lost his head. For days he made his way Through tossed-up water and nightblack sky,

  Water smooth as glass And a sun that burned him fast, Till finally he spied a tropical isle And swam sharky waters for about a mile. He reached the beach Torn, half-dead, But Ol’ Tim Harvey, Well, he never lost his head.

  Now big, fierce natives With spears and gleaming knives, Up and come a’ runnin’, To where Tim Harvey lies. They danced their wild dances As they poked him with their lances. Then they speared him nice and neat Until his heart had ceased to beat.

  And then… Tim Harvey, Well, he lost his bloomin’ head.

  Ode to a Wayfaring Sousaphone (Tune of “Deep in the Heart of Texas”)

  Your big round lips, Like paper clips, Boom, boom, boom, boom, They taste like iron filings. Your brassy skin, It feels like tin, Boom, boom, boom, boom, It’s filthy as a piston. Your lousy breath Will be my death, Boom, boom, boom, boom, Why don’t you brush your mouthpiece? Your voice is loud, It stuns a crowd.

  Boom, boom, boom, boom, It’s low and sick and fuzzy. You’re big and broad. Oh yes, oh Lawd, Boom, boom, boom, boom, Ye gad! You sure are homely.

  365 Days A Year

  A TALL, RED-FACED BOY FINALLY REACHED HIS HOUSE AFTER A MILE’S walk from the high school. He opened the back door into the kitchen. His mother and Mrs. MacHony sat at the table sipping coffee.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. MacHony. Hi Mom.”

  “Hello Sidney,” came from both.

  “Think I’d better do my homework. Got an awful lot tonight.”

  Sidney carried his three books upstairs to his room. He turned on the light, for the sky ‘was already becoming gray at five o’clock. The industrious student threw his geometry book onto his desk, first. He always did the homework that he hated most, first. After scanning three of the assigned problems, he decided to do one. He knew that he would receive total credit for working only one of the fifteen problems assigned. Problem finished, though undoubtedly wrong, he slammed the book shut and threw it aside.

  History. Nothing but a long reading assignment. He could get away with skipping it.

  English. Read twenty pages in the reading book. He cleared a pile of Miscellaneous Paraphernalia from his bed, then sprawled out on the bed, on his stomach. Boring story.

  Every story in the book seemed boring.

  The conversation in the kitchen suddenly toned down to whispers. Sidney’s eyes scanned the pages, but his ears closely followed the conversation. Secret tones were a sign that the two gossipers were saying something that they did not want a third person to hear.

  “You know, you’re absolutely right. They are pampered too much.” The unwanted third person recognized his mother’s whisper.

  “Yeah, they been sheltered, you know? When my husband was just in grammar school he got up at five to deliver papers!”

  “John says the same thing. He says that these teenagers don’t know what ‘work is.

  Actually, I believe that they don’t understand what a cruel world they live in. Some day they’ll come to a rude awakening. It’s extremely sad; everything is just handed to them.”

  “That’s the business, gal.”

  “My Sidney complains about shoveling an inch of snow. He makes excuses right and left.

  Really! After all the things we do for him with no payment at all! He get’s $2.00 a week for doing absolutely nothing.”

  “Right. My Harold, just the same. Never does a thing first time I ask him. I usually end up threatening an allowance cut. That hits him were it hurts the wallet. Ungrateful! He won’t go out and get a job, either, and he’s sixteen. Simply disastrous! I really quite think he’s afraid of the Cruel World. Afraid he can’t get hired or might have to get a job where he has to work. I mean, this problem is reaching disaster stages. Oh! Hello, Sidney.”

  “Yeah. I think I’ll walk the dog,” he told his mother.

  “You haven’t done that in years!”

  “It’s sort of a nice day today. Anyway, I figured Rex would get a kick out of it.”

  “Well, don’t walk too close to Jefferson. We don’t want Rex run over, do we?”

  “No, Mom.” Sidney clipped the chain onto an iron ring on the dog’s collar, then opened the door.

  The dog burst out of the house, pulling Sidney close behind. They ran together down the dark, deserted street. “Slow down, boy.” Sidney slowed his own pace, but the dog pulled on. “Come on, would you slow down!” Finally, half running, the boy reached the highway, Jefferson. He walked the dog up the sidewalk, which was blue in the dim street light, and slippery, until he came to the crossroad sign.

  “Time to go home, fellow. Let’s go. Come on!” The strong boy did not want to pull at the leash for fear of hurting the dog’s neck, but the gnawing wind convinced him that he had better pull. He could not let the dog run around smelling every what not in sight. “Come on.” He jerked the leash. Rex planted his paws firmly in the snow-spotted mud.

  “Doggone. Let’s go.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry, old fellow. That was pretty mean. You can stay out here as long as you want. It’s a lousy business, having a chain on you. You’re a real good guy.” Sidney bent over and patted the terrier.

  This seemed the cue for the dog to start being cooperative. It led Sidney down Jefferson and up the lonely side-street to their home. Sidney pushed open the heavy, brown door to the kitchen.

  “And then she had the nerve, the nerve, mind you, to say I shouldn’t of laid down the king!”

  “She sounds quite nasty.”

  “That’s the gospel. Just doesn’t have any regard for other people’s feelings.”

  Sidney replaced the leash on its hook in the utility closet and hung up his jacket. He smiled at Mrs. MacHony as he squeezed between her chair and the counter. Past the woman, he went up the stairs to his room. He switched on the light over his desk, then set the portable tape recorder he had been given for Christmas, on the desk. He turned it to “play.”

  “… that melancholy burden bore

  Of never nevermore.

  But the Raven still beguiling

  All my fancy into smiling… ” and Sidney turned off the tape recorder.

  He laid his head on his hands. On the ink blotter covering his desktop he noticed an epitaph he had copied from Bartlett’s. He read the scratchy print out loud.

  “It is so soon that I am done for;

  I wonder what I was begun for.”

  Sidney stood slowly, pushing away his chair. He walked to his closet. He opened the door and pulled out a bulky leather case. He unzipped the case. He pulled a .22 caliber rifle from it, and walked with the rifle back across the room to the window above his desk.

  Then, Sidney aimed the rifle and clicked the trigger at automobile headlights pushing bleakly through the darkness of far-off Jefferson.

  the end

  Postscript

  When I first wrote “365 Days a Year” and submitted it, there was a different ending.

  Either Sidney shot himself (committing suicide), or
he actually fired his rifle out the window at cars passing on the road (committing mass murder). It was one or the other.

  Whichever ending I used, I was told by my English teacher that I had to change it.

  A sign of things to come.

  Also, most of the story (though being a blatant imitation of J.D. Salinger) is extremely autobiographical. My parents were not happy about it.

  My mother, in particular, had a problem with the story. She apparently suspected that she might be the inspiration for the mother in the story.

  Also, Sidney’s strange behavior made my English teacher and parents fear that I might have some sort of psychological problems. There was speculation that maybe I needed a shrink, but I was never actually sent to one.

  Oh well.

  You can’t please everyone…

  More “Early Poems”

  Running Away (1965)

  A city-boy sits against a corn shock Underneath the street lamp of the moon Knowing that alone on an Autumn evening

  Is no better Maybe worse In a wigwam cornfield Than in muggy-aired Chicago Where at least you can see her Passing by, saying hi Once a day. Maybe. If you’re lucky.

  Gull (1965)

  A sea gull slipping across the moon

  In the Sierras Shrieks a lonesome hunger For a far-off sea-place.

  Night on a Lake (1965)

  I would have it night on a lake our pale painted boat riding silence on the water under us smooth with the wind

  all warm from the breath of sleeping reeds near the shore. There I would stand, free myself, and feel the wind lick

  where I want you, now, stand slowly

  not to flow over into the lake too soon. You, now, are white where I am white, hidden where I out of hiding will find you. Now slip softly into the wet warmth warmer than the wind with hands closer than the wind we rise tight out of the lake and the wind and the night.

  Kite (1965)

  Looking up I dig a stranded kite Caught on a telephone wire Shredded by the wind Its soul-string whipping behind in the wind And the pale morning moon Hanging stupid above it. I pass by Hoping another guy

  Will come along And dig it with love like me.

  Patience (1967)

  Some of us are Waiting to walk Along a beach at dusk And stumble Not on a sea weed, Sea bone, driftwood, But on Skulls

  Of Some Of us Are

  Waiting (patiently)

  For things to get Rather sticky red With us

  Before things get Too dry to drink.

  Assassin’s Meditation (1967)

  Today I could have lost My lotus down the chest Of president or king, Died petal after petal Down the warehouse wall Into a siren asphalt fire. I could have knelt

  At Tower Hill To die with More Or grown black wings With Latimer. Today I could have slanted My thighs through the sky Grey doom of death’s belly, Slid down a cliff of shadow Into the slated, shouting sea… Taken my blood By the bone of its hand And led it, trembling, Into the alter of tomb.

  An Early Story

  Note: “Beast” was published in Jason, the literary magazine of Willamette University, and won second place in the Willamette writing contest. The year was 1966. The kid was a sophomore. The tale is a sign of things to come.

  Beast

  “I’LL NOT ALLOW ANY SUCH BEAST IN THIS HOUSE! RICHY CAN RANT AND rave till Doomsday, but I’ll not allow a dog in this house. Scratching up the furniture, tearing the curtains… ”

  “It’s cats that tear curtains,” corrected the father.

  “Dogs too. And they smell. And they bite. They carry disease.”

  “So do children.”

  “But I’m not allergic to children! Besides, why should he want a dog anyway? He’s got everything else a boy could ever want. We don’t want to spoil him.”

  “He doesn’t have many friends,” his father said.

  Rich watched the wind float a yellow leaf downward onto the lawn. I’ll rake them all up Saturday, he thought. For Dad. A sad ache of tenderness swept through him. He rolled off the bed and walked to his desk, beside which sat a wooden box. He had made the box.

  One board of the side facing him was too long, its rough edge steepling above the top.

  The boards of the other side had come out even. Rich felt proud of the box. Especially of the way the screws went in so straight to hold the hinges on. The latch would also have met success except for a shortage of screws that left one side of the holes empty. Light brown wood showed where the slotted screw head should have been. The rest of the box was white.

  A padlock sealed it. Rich reached inside his shirt for the key but his mother’s voice came again. “There’s Jimmy and Allen. He spends a lot of time with them. He seems to like them well enough.”

  “I hope not!”

  “Charles!”

  “Hell, honey, those kids are creeps. Just like their parents.”

  “Allen has a dog.”

  “Hallelujah!” he sang.

  “Don’t act like a child.”

  “My only son associates with creeps so he can pet a dog! And I’m not supposed to act like a child?”

  “Don’t yell! Rich’ll hear you.”

  Rich chuckled. He had left the white box and returned to his bed.

  “He’s undoubtedly heard everything we’ve said since I came in the door. Have a nice day, Rich?”

  “Awright,” he called.

  “That’s good.” To his wife, “See?”

  “Richy, time to get washed up for dinner.”

  “Awright.”

  He sat down at the table with its three plates white-gleaming empty, one glass of milk, and two thin-stemmed frosted glasses 3/4 filled with Chablis. It looked to Rich like weak apple cider, but he knew that it wasn’t. He had tasted it once in secret and had gotten sick.

  His mother brought spaghetti to the table. He stuffed a chunk of French bread into his mouth.

  “Rich,” said his father, “how many times do I have to tell you not to eat before grace is said?” His mother sat down. “Will you say grace now?”

  “God is great, God is good, let us thank him for this food. Amen.”

  “You should have combed your hair before dinner,” his mother said.

  “I guess,” he said.

  “What have you done today,” his father changed the subject.

  “Nothing.”

  “He’s been pouting. That’s what he’s been doing. Pouting about not having a dog.”

  “Why do you want a dog?”

  “I don’t know, I just do.”

  ***

  Rich pulled on his jacket and ran outside. The air was peaceful with the smell of burning leaves. That was his favorite thing about autumn. Better than bright leaves against the blue sky, better than the first football games, better than the strange excitement of starting school. The smoke odor was his favorite thing about autumn.

  He ambled up the street with his hands stuffed in his bluejean pockets. Gary Cooper. He wished there was a straw around to suck on. Only asphalt and grass and elm and red brick. Grass wouldn’t do. He would say “Yup” instead. The ambling and the “Yup” would do it. He ambled up to the front door of Allen’s house.

  Rich touched the doorbell. It had a hair-trigger. Only chimes and a high-pitched howl answered the touch, no footsteps or voice. He touched the button again. Again the chimes and howl, but this time came a voice. From the backyard. So Rich cut across the front lawn and down the side of the house to the back.

  “Hi Rich!” yelled Allen. “Come here.”

  “Yeah, come here,” Jimmy echoed.

  Both boys were crouched above a special patch of grass. Rich joined them. “Howdy!

  What’s goin’ on?”

  “A mouse,” answered Allen.

  Rich knelt beside the other two boys. “Yeah,” he said with amazement. It was a live hump of greyness half-hidden in the grass.

  “It’s shaking.”

  “Cold.”

  “Winter’ll be here pret
ty soon.”

  “And nighttime,” Rich added. He hesitated to say anything.

  He knew almost nothing about mice. Allen probably knew a lot about mice. Allen knew a lot about most things. His father used to be a professor of history.

  “I think we oughta warm it up,” stated Allen.

  “How?”

  “Bring it along over to the patio.”

  Jimmy lifted the quivering mouse out of the grass.

  Rich stroked its back with his forefinger. “It sure is cold,” he said. “That shivering under the fur is awful.”

  “You telling me?” Jimmy stared, vaguely repulsed, at the furry animal that stood passive and shivering in his hand.

  “Come on,” cried Allen. “Ya gonna bring it over?”

  Jimmy followed orders. Within the charcoal broiler, the mouse continued to crouch, motionless except for the quiver.

  Rich wished that it would move. He had never seen a mouse from so close and wanted to see it run.

  “Go in the garage and get the gas,” Allen commanded Jimmy.

  “You. I don’t know where it is.”

  “It’s on the lowest shelf and it’s in a red can.”

  “You get it.”

  “If you get the gas, I’ll light the match.”

  Jimmy went for the gas.

  Rich stared at the mouse. “You know,” he drawled, “I don’t think we oughta do it.”

  “It’s cold, ain’t it?” Allen laughed. The parted lips were very red and Rich had once almost asked if it was lipstick. But he hadn’t.

  “I don’t know,” Rich muttered, forgetting his Gary Cooper drawl.

  “Are ya yellow?”

  “Nah.”

  Jimmy brought the red gasoline can. He unscrewed the larger of the two lids and reversed it so that the flexible spout pointed upward. “You wanna pour?”

  “Nah, you can.”