DESCENT INTO
LETHE
there is rapture in the lonely shore,
there is society where none intrudes,
by the deep sea, and music in its roar;
I love not man less, but Nature more."
Lord Byron
"Build then,
the ship of death,
for you must
take the longest journey,to oblivion."
D. H. Lawrence
September, 1969
The four strangers in
pressed slacks and white shirts and ties had aroused the curiosity of the local
residents. They weren't tourists. That much was obvious. They hadn't made the obligatory tourist
pilgrimage over to the
monument marking the site of Les Grossieller's trading post or stopped to shop
at Ugstad's Smoked Fish and
Cheese Shop. Those were usually the two
destinations that drew tourists
off Highway 61 and down the
road that led to the village. The four
men had the impersonal yet
professional look of F.B.I.
agents, but the car that they had arrived in didn't sport any Government
license plates.
Edith Babbins, who prided
herself on knowing everything that was going on in her little village, or if
not,
on being able to find out,
walked up to a thirtyish gentlemen who had been writing some notes on
a clipboard. He seemed very interested in the area that
the locals called "The Fishermen's Harbor."
Deciding that a direct
approach would be her best strategy, she looked at him quizzically, and then in
her
sweetest voice, usually
reserved for cajoling a youngster to give Sunday School a try, she asked him
what he was doing.
He gazed with annoyance at the
diminutive grey-haired lady who was gazing at him expectantly with her hands on
her hips, and replied, "It's a helluva nice day, isn't
it?" An innocuous smile accompanied
his irrelevant
observation. Then, almost as an afterthought he asked, “is
there a good restaurant in town?"
"Emil's Eatery serves
good food, and Ugstad's have a few tables in the back of their store." she
responded,
then she paused, letting
her conscience prod her for a few moments until she added "and Barry &
Leona
have a grill in their
place. I've never been in there myself,"
she added righteously. "I would
never
patronize an establishment
that serves alcohol. It has been the
ruin of far too many families."
"Sounds good to
me." the man grinned. "Thanks
for the information." Abruptly he
turned his back to her,
leaving her in doubt as to
whether he was applauding her moral stance or was referring to the alcohol.
He gazed out toward the breakwater for what
seemed to be a long time before he pulled a pen out of
his pocket, scribbled a few
more notes on his clipboard, then walked a few steps closer to the shore,
paused,
then did some more
writing. Edith Babbins watched him
curiously, but sensing that she wasn't likely to pry
information out of this
tight-lipped character, she turned to seek out the other three men. They had fanned
out to different locations
about the Fishermen's Harbor. One had a
camera, and the other two each held
clipboards. The taller of the men with clipboards was carrying a tape recorder as well.
Edith decided to use a
different stratagem. She'd just baked a
batch of butterscotch fudge bars to bring to
took one of the plates of bars over to the blond-haired man with the camera, and gave him her most ingratiating smile as
she said "you and your friends look like you could use a little snack."
"Thanks very much
ma'am," he said, smiling politely.
"That's very kind of you."
"What
are you taking pictures of?" Edith asked him, trying to keep her voice and
manner nonchalant, as though she'd just asked the question for the sake of
conversation.
The
man smiled warily and said "I'm taking pictures for my employer. No offense, Ma'am, but he pays me well to do it
and to keep my mouth shut about what I'm doing." Realizing that his comment might be construed
as rudeness, he relented a bit and tossed her a crumb of information. "You'll find out what we're up to if my
boss decides that the information that we've gathered is worth following up
on. Thanks for the goodies. We'll really appreciate them."
Edith
saw the futility of pursuing the conversation any further. She'd used a whole plate of bars as bait and
had gotten less than a nibble of information for her efforts. She decided to take the other two plates of
bars to the church. Maybe Reverend
Charon would know what was going on.
At
one of the tables in the rear of Ugstad's store, Robert Youngdahl, who served
as both the County Coroner and the village undertaker, was talking to Mrs.
Ugstad and two of Edith Babbin's church "sisters" about the black
Lincoln that he'd seen pull into the parking lot next to the Fishermen's
Harbor. According to Youngdahl, who
wasn't known for embellishing his tales, four well-dressed business types had
gotten out of the car. One of them, a
stocky man with salt and pepper hair and a bit of a paunch around his waist had pulled a roll of paper out of a blueprint
case and had spread it out on the trunk for the other three gentlemen
to examine. Youngdahl told the three
ladies that he'd discreetly tried to get close enough to overhear what the men
were discussing, but one of the four strangers, a silver-haired stockily built
man who punctuated his directions with an ebony walking stick wielded with the authority of a king wielding a
scepter, noticed Youngdahl as he strolled nonchalantly closer. He gestured slightly toward the undertaker
with the walking stick. His companions
glanced at Youngdahl for a moment, then the conversation continued, but in
muted whispers, as though the men were high school student who had just been
upbraided by a stern librarian.
SUNDAY
It
was sometime during that lonesome period between when the bars close and
sunrise, a time when morose thoughts muscle into an individual's psyche like
the sound of a distant AM radio station, one that lies hidden under the cover
of more powerful bands until their silence is heralded by the Star-Spangled
Banner. Then their distant voices emerge
and claw at their listeners with a depressing playlist of classic
self-recriminations and regrets and reminders of one's relinquished dreamland of
unfulfilled desires.
In
those hours of oppressive loneliness, when the only illumination comes from
what fuel we throw upon one's own pyre of self examination, knowing the exact
time is never too important. One's
thoughts grope toward, in the flickering images of half-sleep, toward truths
that lurk like shadows in the ebony solitude of an oppressive night. Regrettably, the answers seem to always
remain just a wisp of fog away, and the light of the distant stars does little
to illuminate one's path to them. Eventually the dawn will arrive to nudge away
the darkness. With daybreak arrives the
resolve to come to grips with one's existence in the soul- cleansing light of
day. For now though, all a person could
hear while standing on that mist-shrouded shoreline was the whispering caresses
of the waves as they stroke the pebbles and sand of the shore. One after another each wave would be pushed
gently toward that lonely strand of beach like shy young men being urged to
dance by their more socially adept friends, only to be acknowledged and
rebuffed. The soothing sound of the
waves' soft envelopment of the agate-strewn beach, then their retreat, was a
lulling constant repetition of a mantra interrupted only by the occasional soft
rustle of a breeze through the fog-shrouded
pines and the plaintively yearning wail of the harbor's foghorn. Its long repetitive moan sounded like a
primitive mating call. The answering
moans from ships out on the Great Lake served to exacerbate rather than to
interrupt the mood of pre-dawn isolation.
The
natural sounds of the beach were interrupted by the grinding of footsteps upon
the pebbles. Abruptly that sound ceased;
its sudden absence serving only to call attention to the location where it had
just been heard. A slender figure stood
motionless on the beach, gazing through the fog at the barely discernible lights
of an ore freighter. The man was Lawrence
Porter, out for one of his "nocturnal ramblings" as he apologized to
anyone who wondered about his strange choice of hours, begrudging as he did
explain, the fact that he felt obliged to.
Lawrence Porter enjoyed walking at night. His thoughts were free to run unfettered,
like dogs freed from the restraint of a leash, loosed from the tethers of
daylight distractions. He was now on his
way home however. The oppressive loneliness of the fog-shrouded darkness had
boxed his mind in and had forced his thoughts to wander down an introspective
path. This made him feel, despite the
fact that he was by himself, acutely self-conscious. Having paused, he held his wrist up closer to
his face to check the time on his illuminated watch. This show of purpose was an unconscious way
to justify his presence there to the unknown powers of the night. Wryly, he realized what he had done and
smiled slightly at his superstitiousness.
"I can clearly understand," he thought, "the inclination
of the ancient Greeks to find their deities in the natural world about them.” Despite his twentieth century skepticism, he
had felt for some moments that The Watcher of the Night, some lurking, perhaps
malevolent presence, like something out of an H. P. Lovecraft novel, had focused
its gaze upon him. "That's an idea for a
poem," he mused sardonically , his rational mind resenting having paid
those moments of homage to primal superstition.
His eyes scanned the Lake again, but the lights of the ore carrier had
disappeared into the fog. Sighing, he
took a deep, mind-clearing breath of the fresh night air and resumed the walk
back to his cottage.
The
foghorn wailed again as he made his way at a brisker pace along the shoreline
toward the spindrift-ravaged, sun weathered railroad tie stairway that led up
the bluff from the beach to the clearing where his home was situated. Then up six more steps to the redwood deck
that overlooked the Lake. He spotted the
familiar dark shape on the deck railing, an empty flowerpot. This forlorn object had spent several seasons
on the railing waiting to embrace the life of a flower. Grabbing the pot, he emptied its contents, his
house key, into his left palm. This he'd
found to be easier than having to fumble in the darkness to find the right one
on his keychain. Struggling with his
door lock for what seemed to him to be an interminable amount of time, he
finally realized that he'd forgotten to lock the door in the first place. That simplified matters. Lawrence Porter slid the deck door open and
disappeared into his home. His intrusion
into the nocturnal autumn landscape was an insignificance forgotten by the
Powers of the Night the moment that he had erased himself from the scene. Cold, wet and indifferent, the wind, the
waves and the damp green pungency
of the fog-veiled pines resumed their prominence in these tableaux of
solitude. Now all was as it should be in
the village of Lethe.
Lethe
is a small post office on the rugged North Shore of the greatest of the Great
Lakes, the one aptly named "Superior." It's a community that has been bypassed by
Bob Dylan's "Highway 61" and the growth that has sprouted up along
the route from Duluth to Fort William/ Port Arthur, the twin cities that had
been recently rechristened "Thunder Bay." The tourists for the most part, have bypassed
the little village as well. It is too
far down the hill, and the road to it really doesn't look all that interesting. it's a shabby looking hamlet, moldering now, like an old fishing boat
that's been pulled up onto the beach and left to rot, the village sits
neglected and almost
forgotten down a blacktopped road that is in such ill-repair that Robert
Youngdahl suggested once that the State of Minnesota designate it a "Pothole
Sanctuary" in a futile effort to embarrass the state into funding some improvements. Those tourists who
bother to slow to read the billboard that's in almost as bad a condition as the
road to the village is, will learn that Lethe hosts a smelt fry in early May. The weathered sign also asserts that Olaf
Ugstad's Bait Store "caters to the knowledgeable angler," and also
has "a fine variety of cheeses as well as smoked fish for sale." Certainly not enough reason to detour down
that formidable looking dirt road when "Chippewa Chet's Trading Post and Flea
Market," with its caged black bear, and deer and raccoons that can be hand-fed
popcorn, beckons just a couple miles further North on Highway 61.
Lethe's
major contribution to the Minnesota State History book that is used in most
seventh grade classes, is that it was the site, next to the mouth of Dead Man's
Creek, which tumbles down toward the Lake in a series of steep plunges and
waterfalls, and which Highway 61 bridges about a mile and a half west of the
village, of one of the earliest trading posts in the region. Les Grossiellers
erected a rude, two room shelter on the bluff overlooking the mouth of the
creek sometime during the early 1730s.
He had left the Northwest Fur Trading Company under somewhat cloudy
circumstances to set up as an independent fur trader. That's about all the information that
historians have been able to glean from what records that have survived the purge
of time, except for an unflattering
description of Grossiellers. A minor
official of the company, in a report to a superior that addressed Grossieller's departure from the
firm, referred to him as a "coarse, heavy-set, foul-mouthed, pig-headed
harelip."
According
to another set of dispatches which good fortune has preserved in the Canadian National
Library, Grosiellers is acknowledged to
have built up an enviable trade with the native Indians, swapping metal goods
such as pots, axes and knives, as well as glass beads, blankets and whiskey for fox, ermine, otter
and beaver pelts. Having made four trips
out of the wilderness all the way to Montreal, the furs that he sold there
should have made him a wealthy man. Here
the historian has to venture into conjecture to try to construct a scenario out
of the few existing facts. Perhaps by
this time Les had become as much a slave to his liquor stock as the Indians
that he was trading it to. Certainly
that would account for actions that might have appeared to a Montreal official
as being more "rash" or "pig-headed" than prudence warranted. By this time too, the Indians had come to resent
traders like him who cheated and debauched their brothers with the "white
man's poison." Whether oblivious or
indifferent to their increasing hostility, Grossiellers returned to his trading
post at the mouth of the small creek for a fifth season.
According
to the account that has filtered down to us through Indian tales and oral
histories, Les had become angry and embittered, insulting the Chippewa that
would come to trade with him. He'd also
become sloppy and obstinate with drink.
After brazenly cheating one of the young hunters who had brought a load
of furs in, then dismissing his protest with a sneer of contempt, the young man
and his family decided that their honor would have to be upheld. They stormed into the trading post, killed
the drunken trapper, plundered the log structure of its contents and then set
fire to it.
Whatever
happened, the facts were that when a party of voyagers put in at the site of
Les' trading post the following spring, they found the charred
ruins of his cabin and a few scavenger-strewn bones of an adult male.
The
acreage in the immediate vicinity of the site of Les' trading post became known
locally as "Leths." The local
Indians had perpetuated the trader's memory, including his speed impediment, by
preserving it in a parody of his name.
"Leths," as did most of the territory that would come to be
called "Minnesota," wallowed in obscurity for approximately the next
hundred years. The small fur-bearing
animals (some which had found refuge among the fallen, slowly decaying timbers
that remained to mark the charred ruins of the trading post) lured a few more
hardy trappers into the region. As
pitiless in their hunts as wolves running down deer in wet, heavy snow, they sent
pelts back to Montreal by the canoe loads.
Nature's bounty was there for those strong and ambitious enough to wrest
it from her. The land had always been
able to replenish what it lost.
The
opening of the Sault Ste. Marie locks brought the tread of more intruders to
the Lake Superior shoreline. Although
the rocky Minnesota soil made farming a hardscrabble life in the Northern half
of the state, that same soil engendered vast green oceans of virgin pines. Lumberjacks moved in, as bullish and hardy a
breed of men as the trappers who had preceded them. They made their whiskey and womanizing money
the same way the trappers did, by stripping precious resources from the
seemingly inexhaustible land. The myth
of Paul Bunyan is an oral tapestry that was woven to commemorate their mighty
deeds. Like pirates swarming aboard to
plunder a defenseless merchantman, the lumberjacks roved into the forest, using
their axes as deftly as corsairs would their cutlasses to cut down their
needled victims just as mercilessly. The
North Shore of Lake Superior was shorn of most of its venerable green
patriarchs. The few patches of virgin
timber that survived the lumberjacks' Jolly Roger forays into the sea of forest
green soon stood out like emerald waterspouts above the surrounding ocean of
scrub brush and second growth. The
remains of Les' cabin had by now decomposed into a mound scarcely
indistinguishable from the surrounding landscape. The site would have to wait patiently for future
historians to research his story and for archeologists to pinpoint and excavate
the site where the trading post had once stood.
The clearing that had once spoken so eloquently of man's presence was
now hospitable to full-grown birch and popple.
The thick grass had returned to a serene yellow height that engulfed the
forest floor, sensitive to the tide of changing seasons. Depending upon the month, mayflowers and
cowslips, wild roses and ferns, brittle autumn leaves or a blanketing shroud of
snow covered Les' bier as nature took indifferent custody of his memory.
The
limb-numbing cold of the Minnesota winters didn't discourage the immigration of
Europeans into the
Arrowhead
region: so called because that section of Minnesota looked like an arrowhead
when you gazed at it on a map. The
ever-changing majesty of Lake Superior offered a livelihood to those with the
tenacity and hardiness to make their living as fishermen, just as they had been
doing on the North Sea or the Atlantic before unrest or restlessness took them
to North America in search of a better life.
It was a long way from their Scandinavian homelands, but in their new
land hard work could lead to a nice home and land that couldn't be confiscated
at the whim of a ruler. Soon a community
began to spring up on the land that sloped down to a sheltered little bay on
the Lake, and in a spirit of buoyant optimism, it attempted to wrest more of an
advantage out of its environment by constructing a rock breakwater to further
shelter their small harbor. The Lake,
indifferent to the petty intrusions of men, allowed this challenge to its
supremacy to survive. The little community not only survived, but prospered.
The
late nineteenth century brought the Merritt brothers into the area with their
dreams of mining the iron-rich Mesabi Range, Jay Cooke and his vision of a
railroad from the Great Lakes to the Pacific, and John D. Rockefeller, who
wrested control of the new iron mining industry from the Merritts, as well as other
dreamers, scammers, schemers and opportunists to what was now the state of
Minnesota. By this time the land had
become "civilized" enough to where it could support a leisure
class. Lake Superior's North Shore was
touted as a "hay fever haven" for those seeking relief from
allergies, and as a naturally "air conditioned" summer retreat for
those wishing to escape the hot Eastern summers. Families from Cooke's Philadelphia, Boston
and the Atlantic Coast constructed showy little vacation "hideaways"
on the shore of the greatest of the Great Lakes. Many magnificent homes were built in Duluth
during this period, and even Lethe, an hour north of the Zenith City of the
Lakes, saw an influx of "summer residents." The Lake dons its most alluring guise during
the summer and autumn months. The heat
of July and August is tempered by the cooling breezes coming off the Lake, and
in early fall the foliage explodes in a kaleidoscopic frenzy of reds, oranges
and yellows mingled with the green of pines that enhanced the North Shore's
reputation as the new "fashionable retreat."
envious working class labeled "the idle rich." Up near Grand Marais, some wealthy Duluth businessmen
hundred residents during the summer months, and that wasn't counting Indians.
The grand vision of
Naniboujou Lodge dwindled to twenty eight sleeping rooms after the stock market
Those fortunate enough to escape ruin were plotting with jungle-like cunning how to prosper from
fall or watching the spunky brown squirrels gather their winter provender faded into dim recollections
royalty, had uncanny insight as to which of the Wall Street "Wizards" was never going to return. Most
of the abandoned summer residences reverted, like Les' trading post, back to the clutches of the
scavenge wood for a tree fort, or even a need for winter firewood, hastened their demolition. It was the ash of
halcyon summers drifting
silently down do earth, the pollen of paled prosperity driven by the cold
but at least the Leths locals would be able to keep warm.
regeneration of its own.
Two of the wealthy summer residents were disgusted when someone explained to them the origin of
the name of the
village. It seemed so crass. So demeaning.
To cultured money who had pompously
name Leths and its accompanying explanation reeked of something as unsavory and common as
excellent vintage of Madeira, they took a break from discussing Harding's Teapot Dome scandal,
that surrounded the questionable circumstances of the President's death to discuss the possibility
"Leths."
One of the gentlemen conveniently remembered that his wife had received a volume of "Bulfinch's
Mythology" as a gift for serving her tenure as President of some woman's club that she belonged to.
After quite an extensive search he found it, and despite the protests of his "little woman," who had
been using the volume to press wild roses in, he brought it out into the screened-in porch where
the two men began to randomly scan through its pages, searching for a word that sounded "right."
After discarding the obvious: "Olympus," "Parnassus," "Delphi" and "Troy" as too pretentious,
(this from one of the men who
had christened the kennel that he'd had built for his two French
wolfhounds "Le Birch Bark”) the two men took a break from their search for a new name for their
place of summer sojourn to swap the latest Calvin Coolidge anecdotes.
The grain-broker laughed as he unwrapped his story first, savoring the effect that he assumed
that it would have on his companion, who had just clipped the end off and was lighting a
Cuban cigar..
"It seems that there was this Midwestern gal who was fortunate enough to be seated next to Old Cal
during some White House dinner." The broker paused, took a slow sip from his glass of wine, then
continued. "She turned to the President; all excited, and gushed, "Mr. President. You've just got
to talk to me. My sister-in-law bet me five dollars that I wouldn't be able to coax more than two
words out of you."
"Yeah, I've heard that one," his stockbroker friend quickly replied, relishing the opportunity to
upstage his friend. "Old Cal gave her that deadpan look of his for a few moments, and then,
without cracking a smile, drawled in that New England twang of his, "You lose."
Both men laughed, although the grain-broker was actually a little miffed that his companion
had jumped in and trumped him with the punch line. He reached for the "Bulfinch's Mythology"
and began to desultorily flip through its pages.
Then the stockbroker asked him, "Did you hear what Cal told Grace when he came home from
church and she asked him what the sermon had been about?"
"Yeah, I heard that one," the grain-broker interrupted, feeling an inner glow of satisfaction
that he had beaten his friend to the punch line and had evened the score. "Calvin told his wife
that the sermon had been about Sin, and addressing it from the perspective of a politician,
drawled "the preacher came out against it."
They both laughed, feeling so much superior to that droll little man who had somehow
maneuvered his unworthy middle-class carcass into the White House. The grain-broker
continued his desultory perusal of the mythology book. Suddenly he gave a triumphant snort,
and chortled, "I've got it! It's perfect!"
"Look at this!" he exclaimed, pointing at a sentence on the middle of the page. "See that word!"
"Lethe." It was the obvious solution. Who cared what it meant as long as it had been taken
from classical Greek mythology. At least it wasn't some gawdawful Indian name.
"Besides," his wife excitedly assured him later, "that English poet, Keats, used the same word in a
poem of his that I had to read in a literature course that I took in finishing school. It was a stupid
poem about a nightingale, or some bird like that."
Since only one letter of the village's name had to be altered, the change was relatively easy to
facilitate. Since they were both wealthy men with plenty of influence (the grain-broker was a
fixture at the Board of Trade Building in Chicago, and the stockbroker was the last word in
investment advice in the Twin Cities) their suggestion soon captured the imagination of the
village council as well. Just as the offensive “Pig’s Eye” was plucked and rechristened “St. Paul,”
"Leths" evolved into "Lethe."
Lethe hasn't experienced too much in the way of momentous changes since its re-christening.
The year-round residents still have to work hard to make their living, although not near as hard
as their pioneer forebears. Still, the villagers look suspiciously at individuals who can manage to
get by without pulling as much weight as they should be obliged to. They look down upon
Indians, the tourists, and even year-round residents who fail to fit in or try too hard to. Lawrence
Porter would be one of the first persons that they would point to. He'd been fortunate enough
to have been one of several grandchildren who'd had a modest trust fund set up for him by his
grandfather, a lawyer for the Pittsburgh Steamship Company, a ruthless old shyster who had also
dabbled very successfully in land speculation. Having little love for people, he transferred his passion
to the Lake and its history and books of all kinds, a lifelong fascination that he'd passed on to his grandson Lawrence
as well. The trust allowed Lawrence Porter to lead a modestly comfortable existence without having
to shackle himself to a nine-to-five job.
"Perhaps," Porter had reflected often, "it would have been better for me had I been shoved out into the
world to earn my own living." Most people construct their social life around their co-workers, who become
their friends, the people
that they spend the bulk of their time with.
Porter had always been "a solitary,"
applying to himself the
term that was used by nineteenth century Americans to describe an individual
who
part of a social group, but
something, some contrary aspect of his character always seemed to hold him
aloof. He likened himself to someone standing by a lake watching a laughing group of people frolic in it,
but fearing to jump into it because the water might be too cold.
Porter refers to himself as a "sometime author." Indeed, as he'd sometime admit to Brian Revelson or
but he'd made his down payments as well; a new truck for the volunteer fire department, a new roof for
parties.
that matter, probably
even in hell.
squatted like an
architectural afterthought at the rear of the Non-Denominational Church. The church was easily the most
imposing building in Lethe; its steeple stretching nearer to heaven than any
other structure in the
village. The library was open during
afternoons, on Sunday before or after the church s ervice, and anytime when
you were fortunate enough to catch the Reverend in his office or in the garden to ask him to unlock
the door for you. He'd hand you the key
and ask you to "just write down on one of the index cards that
you'll find on the reading table the titles of the books that you're borrowing, a nd hand me the card when
you bring me back the key." It was
an informal way to run a library, but as Reverend Charon always
explained, "Readers aren't thieves."
Thus far his faith in them had always been justified.
part of the church
inventory longer than any living parishioner could remember, and which had been
moved Charon raised his eyes from
the book to greet his parishioner with a friendly smile that masked his a musement. His dark brown eyes blinked as they adjusted
from the small printed words to Doug's e xpansive and eager
gaze. Broughton always entered a room
like a friendly dog wagging his tail furiously in a manner that
suggested "I'm here. Please be good
to me. Please pay attention to me."
book with the caricature
of Samuel Clemens on it. "Porter
was singing its praises last night. In
fact, he ran home and brought me back his
copy later in the evening."
become estranged
from." Charon's eyes contracted
lazily as he thought back on the previous evening's revelry, and slowly, a sad
bemused smile creased his features.
"Yeah," he signed wearily, ""Porter was e xpounding in grand style
again. As usual. He insisted on bringing me the book last
night, leaving to go get it for me while he was
still somewhat sober and waxing philosophical.
By the way, Doug. Why didn't you put in an appearance
last night?"
" I had a backlog of
papers to correct," Broughton groused disgustedly, "and my wife wants
me to drive her to Duluth today to do
some shopping. You know the run...
Target, Shopper's City, Goldfines. We'll
probably stop to eat
somewhere as well. That's the main reason
I stopped here early, to ask you to tap Mike Engstrom or one of the
Ugstads or someone to take my place as an usher today. We're leaving early, so we'll have to
miss your sermon, I guess."
Doug looked a little sheepish with an apologetic smile on his
face.
"get out of here"
gesture. "Nothing that you haven't
heard dozens of times before in a different form. Coming up with some
inspirational pearls of wisdom on a weekly basis can be quite difficult, as you probably know." " Tell
me about it," Broughton sympathized, placing his right hand on the desk,
leaning forward and lowering his voice to make certain that no one but Charon
could hear him. "Try beating your
brains against a classroom of indifferent kids five days a week. Maybe we ought to swap occupations for
awhile." Broughton paused, backed
out through the open doorway, and lit a cigarette. Exhaling appreciatively, he remained standing in the
doorway as he continued. "Did you
hear Edith Babbin's newest explanation for t he strangers that were
roaming about the Fishermen's Harbor a few weeks ago?"
i n for a treat.
sightings that have been
reported over Lake Superior."
anyone expound yet."
know, she's probably naive
enough to take the stuff that they print in those rags seriously." Then he added, in her defense,
"she means well, though."
change the subject. "Did I miss anything last night?"
he asked.
i ndifferently. "Especially when he gets a few drinks in
him. Like so many of your outspoken
atheists, he seems obsessed with the
faith that he's trying so hard to reject."
right door frame, his body
language betraying the fact that he asked more to drive the conversation forward than out of any
real interest.
me as the handy middle
man. It's almost as if he's daring me to
prove him wrong. It's almost as if he is
hoping that I can. He told me last night that if God does
exist, that he's pretty much resigned himself t o damnation." Charon ceased speaking abruptly, as though he
could've said more but had decided to edit the
conversation. However, Doug Broughton
had noticed the clippings dropping to t he cutting room floor.
"Well,"
Charon reluctantly continued, sighing resignedly as he realized that he was
going to have to provide the unexpurgated version of the conversation. "He glared at me defiantly, you know,
like he gets when he's imbibed a little too freely, and told me that if he were
damned, that on the Day of Judgment, when the Almighty dictator pronounces his
doom, that he'll stride right up to the Creator, look him square in the eyes,
and spit in his face." Broughton laughed uneasily,
a little discomfited by the rebellious blasphemy of Porter's language coming out of his Reverend's
mouth. "That would be a
pathetically futile gesture, wouldn't it be?"
what a grand one.'"
discomfort with a shrug
that hurled it like a wrestler out of the ring of his consideration. "He was probably
sense of agreement. "Although, to be honest, he'd begun his
argument earlier yesterday evening in a much more serious vein. He's fixated on the notion that God, being
omnipotent, has allowed him to be created knowing beforehand whether
his life will earn him an eternity in heaven or in hell. Thus he argued that if he ends up damned for
eternity, it's actually God and not Lawrence Porter who should be held
accountable for his fate. He used the analogy of a cop sentencing a
jaywalker to a lifetime in prison. He
argued that such a sentence would be no
more absurd than God sentencing a sinner to an eternity of torment for the sins committed in the blink of
an eye that constitutes the span of human life in comparison. And so on....
" Then he asserted that
God is as guilty of his sins as he is, because God, in his omnipotence, created
him knowing full well that his
life would send him wandering down the path of unrighteousness. So God, according to the Gospel of
Lawrence Porter, being as responsible as man for his sins, if not more, should
be made to suffer the same
condemnation and eternal punishment.
From there he built up steam and went on a rant about hellfire and
damnation preachers, the bloated carcass of the intractably ignorant Catholic Church, religions ice and not enough booze in
his drinks." Reverend Charon could
tell that Broughton was getting impatient to be leaving, so he tied
up his narrative quickly. "Sort of
like Melville's Captain Ahab." The
Reverend paused to catch his breath,
then looked at Broughton grimly.
another argument out of the
ring rather than having to attempt to wrestle it into submission. "But that's what comes of reading too
much and questioning everything. Some
things you've just got to accept on faith. Everyone's got to believe in something."
spent much of the previous
evening attempting to refute Porter's arguments. He squeezed his fingers together
in an unconscious gesture that betrayed the debate still warring within his
mind. Douglas Broughton leaned against the doorway though and took another drag
from his cigarette. He was seemingly
waiting for the conversation to continue, so the Reverend felt an obligation to
elaborate further. Doug's end of the
conversation was limping along on a superficial level though, so Charon decided
to hasten its end with a banal comment that would hopefully finish it.
was in sincerity. The non-commitment of the statement was
followed by Charon reaching for his sermon as if he wished to add some
final touches to it.
out the door, leaned up
against the doorway, and turned to speak to the Reverend again.
s omething that he
considered quite important to say, but didn't know exactly how to begin. Reverend Charon looked at him with
sudden interest. Douglas Broughton was
going to attempt to say something profound. This rare occasion portended something
interesting.
respect for me, but I can
live with that. I'm content to accept
what life brings me day to day, and I don't question it. He's always questioning it
though. It's as if he's looking for
something more, and all his reading and thinking
doesn't seem to bring him even close to being content. Why doesn't he just accept life for what it is
rather than keep making himself unhappy trying to understand it?"
viewed him as one of those
individuals who keep on searching in books for the fulfillment that he's failed
to find in his life. It irks Porter that he hasn't found
contentment or meaning in his life, and his cynicism i s just the bile of his
disappointment. But what was he looking
for? Love? If so, he hadn't found it yet. Was he ambitious? Only Porter knew. The teacher was expecting some response from
his spiritual mentor though, so Reverend Charon
dredged up a reply that he hoped would suffice.
that he enjoys saying
things that make people uncomfortable.
He derives sort of a childish satisfaction out "He can be pretty
cruel sometimes," Doug Broughton blurted out, a trace of hurt in his voice
as he remembered some of the
gibes that Porter had hurled in his direction.
does off a duck's
feathers. Let him wrestle with the
serpent in his bosom. We both know him
well enough to know that nothing that
we say will convince or change him.
We've just got to accept him for who he is. He's got to find a measure
of inner peace on his own. No one can
lead him to it. Lord knows I've tried. Lawrence Porter is the kind
of individual who will never be led."
Broughton laughed with a
twinge of pain still discernable in his voice.
"It's as predictable as taxes."
Lethe. He was bitter, nigh on angry by that
time. He asserted that every day that he
remains here he feels more stifled and out
of touch. Now he's talking about moving
out to Colorado. He says that he t hinks he'd like to live up
in the mountains for awhile...get back to nature. You know, the type of life that's the rage for all the
hippies now. Later though, he was
mocking his own notion. "A fine
goddamned hippie I'd make," he
said, making fun of himself. "I
couldn't even get laid during the Summer of Love."
a nyone can work themselves
into such a stew of discontent. Yet he
does." The teacher sighed, as a look of bemused contempt
crept onto his features. "You've
got to wonder," he admitted finally with an air of unabashed
puzzlement. "I just can't
understand what keeps that guy here in Lethe.
He really doesn't belong here."
There was a time when he
wouldn't have felt so sure. Doug was the
high school Mathematics department, taking care of grades seven
through twelve in the small school. He
also taught Driver's Education during the summer for a
little extra income. Math was his
passion though. Each year he could
condense from September through May,
leaving him only the summer months for personal reading. He'd become so used to subordinating his
interests to the betterment of his students' minds that he'd long ago ceased to pretensions. At times he could get a little defensive
about his limited knowledge of world events and range of challenges that
teaching such a wide diversity of ages offered.
It gave his life an order and living in the village for
almost eight years now, and had finally been accepted by most of the long-time sisters a couple years
before that had finally broken down the remaining barriers. It seemed to the villagers to be an
acceptance of (or as Lawrence Porter put it, a "resignation to") a
lifetime in Lethe. Douglas seemed happy,
although it had surprised many of the village males and no doubt Doug as well,
of recent acquisitions, or
"new arrivals," as the shelf was labeled. He made his usual comment that he
He handed the Reverend
"The Three Sirens" to write down as he smiled boyishly,
eagerly anticipating his trip to the big city of
Duluth to do some shopping. He watched
Charon jot his name onto an index card of checked out books along
with his selection. Doug initialed the
entry, then waved the Reverend an a brupt goodbye as he
finally slipped through the doorway. As
he was leaving Charon seized a few
knew how to cope with that
too. He just wouldn't move too rapidly
or for too long at a time. That would keep the monster at
bay. Maybe. "You know you've become too goddamn
bookish," he muttered to himself, "when Tolkien
similes pops into your mind to describe a bad hangover." Even the most rudimentary thinking would
be an intolerable strain until the pounding in his head subsided. "A good reason to drink," he
reflected bitterly. As for work, that
would have to be shoved aside for awhile as well. "Another good reason
to numb one's intellect," he sighed.
He resigned himself, exhaling helplessly, yet with some sense of
anticipation if he would have been at all honest about it, to reptilian
comfort. The window to the left of his
bed framed a brilliant blue sky, bright with the promise of a warm sun. Past experience whispered to him
of the inviting warmth he'd find on his back deck. He resolved to drag his miserable carcass out
onto his lawn chair and bask in the heat until he felt better.
slightly too prominent nose in disgust and reached down to the floor for his jeans.
and plopped the pillows
next to the headboard. Good enough. Careful not to move too quickly, he left the dark, lonely confines of
his bedroom, anticipating the warmth that beat down upon the deck. "Today
will be the last day I waste like this," he vowed to himself. Monday morning he would get up, contact a
realtor and arrange to list his property.
Then he would get the hell out of here.
Maybe living in a big city would bring a needed transfusion of ambition
into his spirit. Maybe Duluth would be
the answer. Maybe Chicago, Sandburg's
"City of the broad shoulders."
"At any rate," Porter resolved to himself, "tomorrow I'm going
to begin to take steps to put this goddamned village behind me." His pangs of guilt about
his lack of accomplishments often prodded him to pack up and move elsewhere. The wa rmth of the sun felt
good though. Its rays worked like a heat
massage upon his body. He could feel the guilt oozing
healthfully out of his thoughts, evaporating into a clear, crisp blue firmament
that today was ablaze in sunlight.
the audience to the theatre
of the absurd of our nocturnal imaginings.
What
do you do after you're forced to leave the security of college life to confront
the real world? Lawrence Porter had seen
enough of the posturing and pretentiousness of the academic world, from the
arrogance of the tenured professors to the "publish or perish"
obsession of the untenured, to the kiss-ass groveling of the graduate
student. No, he would have none of that,
thank you. He could have taught high
school, of course. Douglas Broughton
seemed content enough with that sort of existence. Porter had in fact flirted with that
possibility, like a high school girl so desperate to experience a prom that
she'd consider a date with a boy whom she'd normally regard as repulsive. Finally he had rejected teaching as a career
path as well. He knew himself too
thoroughly to accept the awful responsibility and the humiliations of
"The
Vikes," Porter yawned. "Call
it loyalty if you care to. I think it's
going to be an evenly matched game."
"Why
in God's name then should he be burdened with someone else's game plan to
address those situations with? Hell,"
he snorted disgustedly, "it's too goddamned much like life." Porter's agitated tone of
voice snapped Brian to attention as he realized that his amused countenance was giving his friend
offense. He decided to shrug off the
conversation, in hopes of dismissing it with a flippant r emark. "I was just thinking of how ridiculous
Cosell looks in that toupee of his," Brian laughed.
with a gauntlet. "Hell, our looks, our social position,
intellectual capabilities, damn near everything we've been given
to work with has already been pre-determined at our birth. It's up to us to take our playbook and attempt
to successfully breach what defenses that fate sets up to thwart us. I can't ever be sure if my playbook, character
or however I choose to define myself, is even suited to the task or not. What if an illness throws me for a loss, or
what if I'm handed opportunities and I fumble them? Why the hell should I even bother putting up
a fight? Why even bother to play the
game? Why not just punt? Let someone else worry about moving the ball
down the field." "Beautiful,
wasn't it?" Brian agreed.
"Puts them in great field position. Hopefully they'll be able to take advantage of
it." He stood up and stretched
lazily. "Say, want another
beer? I'm dry." "Christ," Brian
growled. "You didn't have to polish
it off just because I'm going out to the kitchen to get ano ther one."
Brian
had just opened the refrigerator door when he heard the sound of a tremendous
roar emanating from the TV set, a roar that was punctuated by Lawrence Porter's
rather lame attempt at a rebel yell. "Hey Porter! What
the hell just happened?"
Brian
slipped quickly back into the living room, watched the replay, then handed
Porter a can of beer before he flopped himself down again on the couch. "We'll see now if they
can hold the lead." "I hope so,"
Porter muttered skeptically.
monosyllabic words strung
into short sentences, and grunted guttural responses that passed for answers w ould've honestly probed
his psyche, he would have had to admit to himself that he envied the hand, Brian Revelson, if
pressed, would no doubt admit that he saw himself in his daydreams as a hard- rushing defensive end. Unlike Lawrence Porter, he had actually
played the game in high school, so he clung to far fewer romantic
illusions about the game than Lawrence harbored. Brian remembered the t stosterone, the
indescribable thrill of slamming into a quarterback from his blindside and
knocking the
se rious fans, they could
spot an opportunity to flaunt their knowledge of the game.
Both men had shouted in
unison when the tight end turned and ran toward the quarterback when the ball w as snapped. The quarterback shoveled him the ball and
then threw a block as the tight end rolled further
"Too
bad it failed," Brian responded disappointedly as the camera focused on
the football which was slowly rolling to a stop on the turf. Halftime's orchestrated
monotony had already begun to unfold when Brian returned from the kitchen with
a couple more beers, but both
men tuned out the noise and were oblivious to the band and the dance images that
were flickering on the television screen.
Porter settled back into the comfort of his plush chair, clutching his can
of beer as though it was a death row pardon.
Once he got comfortable, he reached for his beer glass, popped the top
from the can, and raptly watched the progress of the golden liquid as it slowly
fled the can into the tilt of his glass.
"Yeah. That isn't much of a lead, though." "Wait till the second
half." bands
marching into formations of geometric shapes on a field of green, and close-ups
of orthodontically perfect majorette smiles bombarded his consciousness. His mind was elsewhere though. He was back in high school, back as the
lonely high school kid sitting in the bleachers, wishing that he had the talent
to be out on the playing field, knowing for certain that being an athlete was
the key to acceptance and to popularity.
A key that he never did possess.
p rofessors that he'd looked
upon for a time during that period in his life as Gods. Yes, he'd set them u
He'd almost made it, but
when he'd gotten near the summit of Olympus, he'd become aware of the petty had
taken him awhile to come to grips with his disillusionment. His half-hearted attempts to seek work after his
graduation probably reflected his despair after leaving the university world
that he'd felt so comfortable in. He
knew deep down in his secret self that he was afraid of finding a job, fearing
that then his inadequacy would then be exposed for all to see.
and his parasitical
dependence upon the trust fund set up for him by his grandfather. That monthly stipend
"No way," Porter
responded emphatically. "He really
got nailed."
o f three more points.
"Make
sure you're there tomorrow morning. Hit
'em with our proposal. Hit 'em
hard. You know. Lay it on thick. Give them a week to make their decision. Squeeze 'em right away. That way there'll be little time for the environmental
freaks to get rolling and mount any organized opposition to our development plans. The land belongs to the village, so we
shouldn't have to lock horns with some bullheaded locals." In fact, I got the
impression when I talked to him that he'd just as soon not hear from us
again. He seems
case lined with blue velvet
(he'd always liked that Bobby Vinton song) that he stored them in. A little
Brian Revelson desultorily
pulled out one of the battleship grey folding chairs that surrounded the table that held the chessboard
and its pieces, already set up in lines of battle. Ritual again.
Porter would
sigh however as he realized
that the long-distance aspect of their romance would soon be coming to an
though it was an intrusive
salesman attempting to bully his way across the threshold of his mind, a r ude interruption of his
reveries.
"Greedy son of a bitch," Porter chided him. "Check."
The game was beginning to
close in on Revelson. His king was
slowly being pulled out into the
front of the battle line, its protection slowly being stripped away by Porter's profligate sacrifice of
pieces. As we so often demonstrate in the games we play, Lawrence Porter, as a gamester, was the
antithesis of what he was in life. Daring, audacious and confident enough to take the necessary risks,
he was setting Revelson up for the coup de grace. Porter deliberated for some moments, pursing his
lips with determined resolve as he prepared to make his seventeenth move.
"Knight takes
knight." This was the moment of
truth as matadors are wont to call it.
Porter had set
up a trap with what he thought would be irresistible bait for his friend to snap up. Now the question
was...would he?
"Bishop takes queen." This time Brian assumed that it was his turn to smile smugly. Porter stifled
a grin of his own, though he was pleased at the confirmation of his own assessment of his friend's character. Yes, Brian
Revelson was a greedy son-of-a-bitch.
That last move lost
it for you, Brian. I'll move my bishop
over here."
Brian's face, which had been glowing in triumph, slowly faded into dismay. His brow wrinkled as he
desperately surveyed the board, looking for a way to sidestep the defeat that was staring him in the
face with such indifferent certainty. There was no way to prevent it. Porter had maneuvered him into
forced mate in one more move. Revelson tipped his king with a disgusted flick of his finger.
"You're right," he acquiesced nobly. In lieu of a sword to offer to Porter, he suggested what he was
sure would be an acceptable alternative. "Let's have another beer."
Father Baraga was a missionary who labored around the Apostle Islands. He and a couple of his
Douglas Broughton swung
open the door of the small lending library, a small shed like building that
It was Sunday morning. Reverend Emmanuel Charon was sitting at a
venerable oak desk that had been
into
the library after Dale Grumman's donation had allowed it to be built. As evidenced by the five scrawled pages of
notes next to him, Reverend Charon had already finished the sermon that he
would soon be inflicting upon his flock.
He was thumbing slowly now through a well-worn paperback, reading the underlined sections.
"What are you reading,
Reverend?" Douglas Broughton asked as he stepped into the library.
"A paperback copy of Mark
Twain's letters from the Earth," Charon answered, holding up the
"I’ve never heard of
it," Broughton shrugged, his eyes narrowing at the mention of Lawrence
Porter.
"It's one of Twain's
later efforts. Written as a bitter
diatribe against a God that by this time Twain had
"You won't miss
much," sighed the Reverend, waving the teacher off to run his errands with
a dismissive
"Hit me with it,"
Reverend Charon grinned. He could tell
by the smile on the teacher's face that he was
"She figures now that
the men were F.B.I. agents, and that they were here to investigate the U.F.O,
"Good Lord," the
Reverend groaned in mock horror. That's
the most outlandish theory that I've heard
Both the men laughed.
"She's probably read a
few too many of those grocery store tabloids," the Reverend chuckled. "You
Douglas Broughton had his
own differing opinion about that, but he kept it to himself and decided to
"Lawrence Porter and I
got into a bit of a heated discussion last night," Reverend Charon responded
slowly.
"It was a good-natured
tiff though," he quickly added, "despite the fact that our arguments
got a bit
heated at times. He seems to take sort
of a perverse delight in belittling my faith, I guess. He shrugged
"Yeah, he gets
somewhat worked up about it, doesn't he?" agreed the teacher readily. "What was
he on your case about last
night, anyway?" Douglas Broughton
settled up comfortably against the
"It was his usual
drunken barrage of challenge and self-pity.
Directed at God, of course, but through
"That can't be all he
said," Broughton persisted. "I
know him better than that."
"I said pretty much
the same thing, Douglas, but then he just smiled wickedly at me and said,
'Yeah, but
Douglas Broughton wrestled
with that sentiment for a few moments, then grunted, dismissing his
saying that just to try to
shock you."
"I suppose,"
agreed the cleric, more as an acknowledgement of the teacher's comment than out
of any
constant opposition to
science and the spread of knowledge....and so on... and so on. until by late evening
he was hell-bent upon
vengeance against the Almighty for all sorts of imagined slights, including too
much
"He's just copping an
attitude, like he always does," Broughton concluded matter-of-factly,
tossing
"But what if you have
no faith?" Reverend Charon wondered
silently, frowning slightly. He
had
"Yes," faith is
so very important," Charon replied in a voice as devoid of feeling as the
platitude he uttered
Doug Broughton seemingly
caught the hint and turned as if to leave, but instead he flicked his cigarette
ash
"You know," he
began hesitantly, pausing as if he was deciding on his choice of words. It was as if he had
"You know," the
teacher began again. "I just can't
figure Lawrence Porter out. I know that
he's never had
Reverend Charon had long
ago formed his own impression of Lawrence Porter's character. The cleric
"I hope that you know
better than to take anything Lawrence says to heart. By now you ought to know
of watching how they
respond."
"Just let what he says
run down your back like I do," the Reverend advised him kindly. "Sort of like water
"I suppose he launched
into his "I'm going to pack up and get the hell out of here" rag as
well last night."
"Yes, he launched into
his usual diatribe last night, saying that he's getting ready to get the hell
out of
"He'd be discontented
in Colorado too," Doug responded.
"You know, I just can't understand how
Reverend Charon surmised by
this comment that Douglas Broughton felt confident that he did now.
the wisdom of the world
into the same secure unshakeable equations.
This was a mind-enveloping task
resent it. He'd let himself evolve into an amiable,
well-meaning instructor of no great intellectual
literature by arguing that
his job offered him enough stimulation.
Indeed, he really did enjoy the wide
purpose as neat and precise
as the columns of numbers and formulas that he worked with. He'd been
residents as a
"local." It had been his
marriage to a Lethe girl, one of the perky blonde Youngdahl
how quickly his vivacious young wife had become
shrewish and had honed her ability to nag into an
art form. She had been so much fun to be with while
she was dating.
Doug flipped his cigarette
butt out the doorway, then stepped back in to quickly peruse the quarter-shelf
"just couldn't find
anything that begs me to take it home with me."
That
prompted Reverend Charon's memory, as he remembered one of Lawrence Porter's
sarcastic comments about the teacher's lack of intellectual curiosity. "Doug," Porter had muttered in one
of his bitingly cynical moods, "started vegetating the day that he gave up
thinking in order to keep up his "Life" subscription
because he likes the pictures."
Douglas Broughton picked up
an Irving Wallace novel that looked unfamiliar.
Nope, he hadn't read it.
moments
to let his gaze wander outside. It was a
gorgeous sun-ripened autumn morning.
Surprisingly warm. Obviously
Indian summer had decided to linger for at least another morning or two. He watched Doug Broughton slide into the
driver's side of a red station wagon next to his wife who had been waiting impatiently
for him. Doug was a methodical
mathematician though. First he adjusted
his headrest for a long drive, then he put on his sunglasses, then he adjusted
the sun visor and rear-view mirror with the same
methodical care that Mario Andretti would have lavished on his vehicle before
going on to race in the Indianapolis
500.
"Lot's of monkey-business for a trip to Duluth," the Reverend mused softly, as he watched the teacher with amused tolerance. Just then he caught the sweet-clover-laden scent of a fresh mown lawn wafting into the library, accompanied by the unobtrusive hum of an electric lawn mower. Good. One of the parishioners must have been overcome by pangs of ambition or guilt. No matter the motivation, it was one less irksome chore that the Reverend would have to worry about.
"Lot's of monkey-business for a trip to Duluth," the Reverend mused softly, as he watched the teacher with amused tolerance. Just then he caught the sweet-clover-laden scent of a fresh mown lawn wafting into the library, accompanied by the unobtrusive hum of an electric lawn mower. Good. One of the parishioners must have been overcome by pangs of ambition or guilt. No matter the motivation, it was one less irksome chore that the Reverend would have to worry about.
Lawrence
Porter awoke with a headache that suggested a metaphor from Tolkien's
"Lord of the Rings" trilogy.
Porter often related his life to the books that he had read. He felt as though his cranium was
permeated with the Mines of Moria and that King Balin and his dwarfish folk were
digging for treasure in
it. He doubted that they'd find
any. He also made a side bet with
himself that he'd survive the onslaught of their hammers. He always had before. What can't be cured, must be endured, as the old adage went. In the depths of his stomach he could feel
the stirrings of the
Balrog, ominous movements that portended violent upheaval in the lower reaches of his kingdom. He
Balrog, ominous movements that portended violent upheaval in the lower reaches of his kingdom. He
Getting out of bed required
more effort than he had anticipated.
Porter sat on the edge of the bed and
scowled at the image that
scowled back at him from the distance of the mirror above his dresser.
Rubbing his hands through
his soft, sandy-colored hair, then down his face, he squinted through
his fingers at the image in
the mirror to see if it had improved any.
Not noticeably. He wrinkled his
slightly too prominent nose in disgust and reached down to the floor for his jeans.
Waking his clothes from
their rumpled repose on the floor next to his bed, he slowly pulled on his
jeans, then did his best to
smooth out the wrinkles by running his hands down his legs a few times.
Good enough. Then he slipped on a light blue
turtleneck. It was slightly wrinkled,
and smelled of
beer and cigarette smoke
from the night before, but it would do.
He wasn't planning on going anywhere.
He was dressed as well as
he need to be. He pulled his sheet,
blanket and bedspread back into place
Grabbing hold of the
railing that surrounded the deck, he slowly lowered himself down onto the lawn
chair. The rays of the sun that didn’t immediately
embrace him seemed to shimmer from the sparkling surface of the Lake, giving it
the luster of a sapphire. The warmth had
a dulling effect upon his mind and body that served as well as alcohol without
the inevitable penalties that follow overindulgence in the latter. Porter stretched lazily on the warm vinyl
cushions of the chair, luxuriating in sun-worship as lazily as a lizard upon a warm
stone.
The glare of the sun upon
eyelids that had too little incentive to remain open was too much for him to
fight.
The ensuing infiltration of
memories onto the center-stage of his consciousness, accompanied by the
orchestration of waves that
gently caressed the pebbled beach, combined to cajole him into falling back to
sleep. Sleep.
A blessing when it is restfully dreamless; a mocking laceration of the
soul when our mind is
Lawrence Porter had a lot
of grist to grind his dreams out of.
Approaching the age of thirty faster than he
cared
to acknowledge, that age when he would join the ranks of the untrustworthy, at
least money had never been a major concern of his. His lawyer/ land speculator of a grandfather
had seen to that. The fortune that his
relative amassed still existed, in the form of a trust fund now. As a result of fortunate birth, Lawrence
Porter, as one of his grandchildren, had had enough money set aside for him so
that he could choose to live off that income alone if he chose to. He often did.
Almost thirty. Sure he'd gone to
college. Anyone could nowadays. Besides, a student deferment sure beat the
hell out of slogging through some humid, snake and bug-infested Vietnamese rice
paddy. He'd managed to graduate with a
degree. Two in fact. Big fuckin deal. Six years of schooling had provided him with
a BA in philosophy, a BS in English and a few persuasive arguments that he could
use to justify his selfish immersion in literature and literary pursuits.
the
daily revelation of self to classes of vapid-faced, skeptical, gum-chomping
kids who would probably detest the subject that he taught and would probably
come to loathe him with equal intensity.
No. He was certain that he
couldn't bring himself to face that mean sort of existence day after day. More out of desperation than anything else,
he turned to writing. although he had to admit that here was an abundance of
ego involved in the choice as well. He
felt that he had something important to say, but he seemed to be doomed to
disappointment and dissatisfaction in this new occupation of his as well. There were some critics who slammed the
hammer down squarely on the nail of his work.
They, and some of his readers as well, commented that Lawrence Porter
always seemed to be holding something back; some rich and poignant vein of
untapped emotional commitment to his characters that would be necessary for him
to mine before his novels would meet with any critical success. His two published novels were reminiscent of
a philosophy that took one unerringly and logically through the superficiality
of life, only to halt at death, refusing to venture a guess as to what lay
beyond.
His "Two Friends,"
a fictional celebration and exploration of the Nathaniel Hawthorne/Franklin
Pierce
relationship,
earned him a little recognition. It was
his favorite of his two books, although he still wondered with some frustration
whether anyone could have done an adequate job of plumbing Hawthorne's dark and
secretive psyche. What secret crime or
fear had driven him to seven years of self-imposed isolation? What had bound him so close to the shallow,
weak political hack who rode a "dark horse" Presidential nomination
into a four year term in the White House that was shrouded in personal
tragedy. Hawthorne had written Pierce's
campaign biography, and had shown his support for his friend by dedicating one
of his novels to him, a move which so enraged Ralph Waldo Emerson that he cut
the dedication page from his copy of the book.
Why had a dying Hawthorne forsaken his family near the end of his
life? Knowing that his illness was
terminals, he chose to embark on his journey toward death accompanied by his
ex-President friend whom he'd known since their days as students at Bowdin
College. Why was Pierce's companionship
near the end preferable to the comfort that he could have found with his
family? Porter didn't feel that he had
arrived at any definitive answers.
His other published novel,
"Merriweather," sold well, even earning the distinction of being
selected as a
Book
of the Month Club alternate selection.
Lawrence Porter knew deep within his heart though that he had failed
with that book as well. A gifted writer
should have been able to construct a gripping three dimensional character
around the enigmatic personality of the explorer who traveled to the Pacific
and back as co-captain of an expedition with William Clark. Porter was still bothered that he'd again
failed to divine the essence of the man, that gifted, driven, yet tortured
soul. Few readers noticed. No matter.
He did. A couple very perceptive critics
taxed him after his second novel for hiding behind the persona of historical
figures when he wrote rather than risking revealing too much of his own persona
by shaping a character boldly from his own experiences. He ignored their criticism but it bothered
him all the more painfully because he knew that it was true. He always felt more comfortable when he was
able to don someone else's persona to speak from.
Yawning,
he luxuriated in the warmth of the sun.
He just wouldn't think about it anymore.
Today anyway. There wasn't
anything he could do about his past mistakes other than regret them. He yawned again, and stretched, flexing his
back lazily into the contours of his lawn chair and unleashing his mind to
wander freely in that relaxing euphoria of no thought at all. Soon he fell asleep.
Dale
Grumman peered blearily out the window of his bedroom and let a trace of a
pitying smile flicker across his face as he noticed his next door neighbor
asleep on his lawn chair. Yeah, last
night had been a hell of a party. Lethe
wasn't any different than anywhere else.
Collect an assortment of interesting people, good conversationalists and
the socially ambitious, provide free liquor and show them a good time, and
you've got a rather complicated yet interesting formula in the beaker. Last night's mixture shook up to be a rather volatile
but intriguing concoction with a heady brew of interesting discussions and a
spirited flavor of interplay between very dissimilar individuals. On the whole, a very successful evening. One that Jay Gatsby himself would have been
proud of.
"You're finally awake
now, Dale?"
"Yeah,
finally," he admitted in response to his wife's playful chiding. He had risen late today. By the sound of the dishwasher, he could tell
that his wife, Denise, had already been up and about long enough to clear the night's
accumulation of empty glasses, filled ashtrays and empty beer bottles from
their living room. There was a slight
breeze too. Denise must have the windows
open to air out the rooms.
Dale
and Denise were perfectly matched as a couple.
In their late forties, Dale's hair had turned a gun metal -looking
grey. Denise's had begun to turn grey as
well, but she held this sign of middle-age at bay by using Lady Clairol hair
coloring as a subterfuge. If Dale
suspected, he was too much of a gentleman to mock her efforts. Both exercised enough to stay physically
fit. Dale lifted weights, jogged and did
calisthenics daily and Denise made certain that she got out to walk at least a
couple of miles a day during nice weather.
Not only were Dale and Denise attached to each
other with a genuine affection that was the envy of their friends, but they
shared similar temperaments in spirit as well.
Neither had a trace of snobbery left in their make-up, having lived
amidst wealth long enough to feel secure enough not to have to flaunt it, and
neither Denise or he had any desire to
travel, both having grown up in rich families whose passion for trips abroad
wearied the two of them of it early. On
their honeymoon Denise had discovered the beauty of Lake Superior's rugged North
Shore. It seemed like an unspoiled
paradise to the both of them. Dale
surprised Denise on their first anniversary by taking her to the North Shore
again, this time to an elegant cottage that had been built in the 1890's with
beautiful stonework around the main floor, circling out around the patio as
well and even along the stone steps that led down to the lakeshore. It was then that he confided to her that this
had been his family's summer home since the 1890's when it had been built, but
now it was "their" summer home.
He had purchased his brother's share in it from him. He had wanted the money to finance a couple
extended trips, one to Tahiti and one to Antarctica. Since then Dale and Denise had been returning
to Lethe every summer; by now Dale's law practice could operate smoothly enough
without him that they could escape to Lethe for at least four months a year
with minimal interruption.
Dale Grumman's success as a
lawyer was predicated upon a genuine interest in and concern about people
that
radiated from him in a way that always impressed a jury. He wasn't some callous ambulance chaser or an
elitist Ivy League iceberg; he could talk knowledgeably about fly-fishing,
bow-hunting, baseball and even professional wrestling with the most avid fans,
and although he was well-read, he didn't feel the need to preen his own
intellect by hitting people over the head with literary allusions or words that
would be more appropriately confined to a legal brief. Once Dale and Denise began to open their home
on Saturday evening, their warmth and openness soon melted the cautious reserve
of their guests. Soon Saturday evenings
at the Grummans, with good food, cheer, Dale's fireworks displays, and
conversation became the most sought after invitation during the established
weekly rites of summer.
Today
was Sunday. Porter stirred lazily on his
lawn chair. The sun was directly above
him now. It was past noon. Waves of ambition were beginning to finally
lap against the shore of his consciousness.
The
melodious toll of the bell
that proclaimed the end of Reverend Charon's church service also registered
with
him. Yes, today was Sunday. Big fuckin deal.
He summoned forth as much
energy as he could muster, loathe to forsake the comfort of his sun-drenched
deck. As enticing as basking in the sun was,
Lawrence Porter had a social obligation.
Brian Revelson was
going to be coming over at
one o'clock. The first football game of
the regular season would have to be
watched, of course. It would be the Giants against the Vikings
with Fran Tarkenton now calling signals for
the New York team. It seemed strange to think of "Sir
Francis," as Howard Cosell, the abrasive-voiced
Big Apple sportscaster had
christened him, in anything other than a Viking uniform, but rosters change,
and
the trade that sent the
Viking quarterback to New York brought much needed 1st round draft picks to the
Minnesota team that the
Vikings used to corral some defensive talent and a dependable running
back.
Porter
and Brian both enjoyed watching football, as well as playing chess. Football was how the two of them had become
friends actually. They both had been
sitting at Barry and Leona's Hideaway, watching the Vikings football game that
had been playing on the television mounted on the wall above the bar. A
conversation that had first
revolved around the game, eventually liberated itself to other pastures, and
the
two
men, then in their mid-twenties, discovered that they shared a lot of mutual
interests. Now their Sunday football
viewing had become an important part of the week for each of them, an oasis of
companionship of the mind in a village that for the most part sought
fulfillment in the stunted gardens of Sunday morning and Wednesday evening
church services or by weekend shopping in Duluth.
Porter busied himself about
his cottage, another pre-Depression summer escape home that had weathered
abandonment to be picked up
for back taxes by one of the locals. It
had providentially come up for sale
when Porter was looking to
purchase a home on the Lake. Not that he
really had all that much to do, his
housekeeping efforts were
as spartan as his home furnishings if you discounted his books. A stereo
cabinet occupied space
beneath the window that looked out upon the Lake, and the television was atop
that. Books dominated the room, looking like some
sort of species that had overbred their habitat. Paper-
backs lay on the table, and
hardcover volumes filled the bookshelves and even were stacked on the top
of the shelves. There was a stack of library books on his
kitchen counter. Porter's taste was
eclectic.
Depending upon his mood you
could find him immersed in the poetry of Edgar Lee Masters, Robinson
Jeffers or D. H. Lawrence,
or reading the newest biography of Lawrence of Arabia, Lord Byron or Percy
Bysshe Shelley, or maybe
fiction ranging from Norman Mailer to Thomas Heggen's Mr. Roberts.
He might immerse himself in
Mailer's newest collection of essays, or pick up a Hunter Thompson volume
and
share his substance-induced insights.
Today he'd been reading "The Voice that is Great within Us,
a
wonderful anthology of twentieth century poetry edited by Haydon Carruth. Porter wrote poetry too, but he was an astute
enough critic of his own work to be able to distinguish between good poetry and
his own.
A
good poet exposes his soul to the reader, allowing him to share his secret
fears or his innermost desires. Lawrence
Porter was reluctant to let anyone catch a glimpse of his deepest feeling and
yearnings. If any of his acquaintances
asked him about his poetry, he invariably disparaged it, but something still
compelled him to write it.
Porter slid a damp rag
across the table, then content with its cleanliness, draped a faded beach towel
upon
it to serve as a
tablecloth. Running some water next, he
washed two glasses quickly under the faucet, then
stuffed them into the
freezer to chill between a stack of pot pies, TV dinners and a couple of frozen
pizzas.
Content with those
amenities, he collected an offering of dirty dishes and set them into the sink
of newly
run
dishwater. He told his conscience that
he would wash them later in the evening, then wryly remembered that he had used
that same salve on his conscience the past three days. Bending down, he straightened the green throw
rug that partially covered the dusty hardwood floor. He went to the kitchen cupboards, opened a
door and pulled out his chess game, which he brought over to the beach-towel
covered table, opened and set up the pieces in battle array. "It's a good thing that Brian's bringing
the beer," Lawrence thought. "One
sure would taste good right about now."
Lawrence
Porter turned as he heard the empty formality of three quick knocks on the
door, but he waited, and Brian Revelson walked right in as Porter knew he
would. Brian grinned, holding up the two
twelve packs of Miller Lite beer that he'd brought with him, and without a
word, he walked over to the refrigerator and jammed them onto the lowest shelf,
just atop the vegetable drawer. He then
walked into the living room and flopped down comfortably onto the soft, faded,
formerly sea-green davenport, his usual spot, leaving the overly plush relic of
a rummage sale, a red armchair, for Lawrence's use. After turning on the television, he strode
purposely into the kitchen and came back with two chilled glasses and two cans
of beer. He handed half his cargo to
Brian Revelson, who nodded his thanks, his eyes already fixed upon the glib
ex-jock announcer's expert dissection of the strengths and weaknesses of the
two teams that would soon be trying to muscle each other into submission. Neither team had looked too impressive during
pre-season play. Now, as the Giants were
approaching the ball for the ensuing kickoff, Brian Revelson finally broke the
silence with a meager offering.
"Well Porter, how's it
going today?"
"I'll
survive," Porter mumbled, taking a long, slow swig of his beer. No brush-off was intended. The friendship of the two men had evolved to
the point where the lack of verbal communication wasn't grounds enough to make
either of them feel uneasy or to take any offense at.
"Who're you putting
your money on?" Brian asked, laying
a dollar bill on the end table next to Lawrence's
chair. Their dollar bet had become another tradition
to be upheld during their Sunday football ritual.
He paused, took another
long swallow from his beer and watched the televised game. Meanwhile, Brian
pondered
whether or not he should divulge the information that he'd received to his best
friend. It was a phone call that he'd
feared would be coming for awhile; a phone call that Brian knew would set the
village's residents against each other once they heard the proposition. He'd have company at the council meeting on
Monday. Maybe he'd best wait till Monday
to unwrap the package and watch how the council reacted. No sense in confiding in Porter and having
him telling everyone about it at Barry and Leona's this evening.
The two men watched the
game silently for a few minutes, until Lawrence Porter suddenly blurted out an
observation,
as though inspired at that instant with a flash of genius. "What the Vikings need, is a quarterback
with an imagination. They sure miss
Fran Tarkenton."
Brian
Revelson was intrigued to hear where this thread of Porter's conversation would
lead to. He decided to play out a little
more line for him to run with.
"What the hell do you mean by imagination?" he asked,
challenging his friend. "You know
damn well as well as I do that Coach Grant calls all the plays."
Lawrence
Porter paused momentarily, as though he was carefully mentally formulating his
reply. Revelson always got annoyed when
Porter did that. When Porter had to plot
his conversation carefully, like moves on a chessboard, what Brian knew he'd
get was a pose, a facade. He liked his
friend better when his conversation flowed smoothly and rapidly. It tended to be more honest.
"Precisely,"
Porter finally responded slowly. "A
quarterback, ideally, should be the soul of the team, not the coach. The quarterback should be the leader that the
rest of the team can look to as a rallying point, like the flag-bearer on a
Civil War battlefield. The quarterback
is the guy who has to read the defenses and confound them with precision, seam-splitting
passes, or be able to scrap the play and take the ball and run for daylight
himself when everything around him is going to hell."
He paused again, as though he was rummaging
through a box of linotype to find the right letters to form into words to give
his thoughts form. He grimaced as though
he was a swimmer poised to dive into a chilly mountain lake, then plunged into
the conversation again.
Brian
Revelson finally realized what was coming now.
Porter wanted to philosophize a bit, but he was still licking his wounds
from the previous evening. He'd
evidently reflected on the discussion that he had with Emmanuel Charon and
wanted to bounce the responses that he should have used last night off his
friend. Brian realized that he would
have to tread lightly for awhile.
"I'll just let him give free rein to his conversation," Brian
resolved silently. "Maybe he'll be
able to talk the bile out of his system."
"Football
isn't supposed to be confused with life," he finally responded to
Porter. "That's why it's so
popular. It's escapism. At least that's the kind of rhetoric that
I've been hearing from sports pundits like Howard Cosell."
Porter
didn't meet his gaze for awhile, so intent was he on the progress of the
televised game, but when he did respond, he did so in a patient tone of voice,
as though he was instructing an inquisitive yet naive schoolboy about the facts
of life.
"Look
at it this way. We've all been given our
series of offensive plays to work with; each one of us. I'm talking heredity, environment,
chromosomes, DNA, all that shit. Don't
just sit there laughing at me with that skeptical look of yours on your
face! I'm serious."
It
didn't work. Porter wasn't going to be
mollified that easily, so Brian let his features slip into a stoical mask, hoping
that by betraying no reaction that he would be less likely to annoy Porter any
further.
"You think I'm
wrong?" Porter continued, throwing his question down as a challenge, like
a slap in the face
“You’re
never going to win a ball game by punting," Brian responded
matter-of-factly. "What you're
talking now is just self-pitying bullshit, nothing more."
"If
that's the case, then maybe that's the basic flaw in my game plan. Or maybe it's just my offensive
line." He winced visibly at his
feeble play on words, and managed a weak grin.
The two men sat silently for awhile and gave their attention to the
football game.
"Damn
it!" Porter yelled, slamming his
fist on the arm of his chair as a play on the TV screen caused him to drop and
shatter the silence that he'd been clinging to.
"Did you see that catch?"
"Yeah.
Just let me kill off this one first. I've been too glued to the game." He lifted and drained his glass in one
continuous motion.
"I felt like doing it
anyway," Porter admitted ruefully.
"The Vikes scored a
touchdown."
"How?"
"A
pass. Voight caught it underneath the
crossbar. In fact, he'd had to wrest it
away from one of the defensive backs. If
you get your ass back out here you'll be able to watch the instant
replay."
During the football game
the dialogue between the two friends was minimal. Questions constructed from
usually prevailed. Both men enjoyed losing themselves in imaginative
sports reveries. Porter always
envisioned himself as a
cool, poised quarterback, a natural leader who would be capable of improvising
a workable play out of a
collapsing situation, sort of like Fran Tarkenton was so capable of doing. If he
quarterback his place as
the center of attention, as the focus of and the soul of the team. On the other
excitement that the
sensation of violent physical confrontation aroused in him; that tremendous
rush of
ball loose. A thrill such as that just couldn't be
described, or even compared to many experienced that
he'd had since. Even sex paled beside those memories,
probably because intercourse was a much more
common experience than the
couple of memorable game-turning plays that he'd had the pleasure to
consummate as a high school
defensive lineman. He'd be the first to
remind you that he knows more about
football than his friend,
and that the real balance of power in the game rests in the battle in the
trenches
between the opposing
offensive and defensive lines.
Both men then eschewed
conversation to give free rein to their reveries. Unless of course, like most
"Check out the tight
end, Brian. He's setting up a couple
yards deeper than where he usually does."
"Yeah, I noticed
that," Brian lied. "So
what."
"I
think he's going deep this time. He's
going to bluff making a run at the linebacker as if he's going to block him,
but then he'll cut past him and beeline downfield."
"What the hell!"
to
the left as if he was going to run with the ball, drawing the pursuit of the
defensive linemen and linebackers. He
then flipped the ball back to the quarterback whom by this time had been
forgotten. The quarterback halted abruptly,
set his feet and then put all of his arm strength into a long arcing pass
destined for the corner of the end zone.
The play was perfectly executed, but the ball wriggled like a slippery
trout through the intended receiver's eagerly outstretched fingertips.
"God, what a beautiful
play!" Lawrence Porter exclaimed as he sat back and reached for his beer.
"Yeah,"
Porter sighed. "You've sure got to
admit though that it had class," he continued, stamping his mark of approval
on the imaginative call. "I just
wish it would've succeeded."
After
awhile he spoke lazily, more to acknowledge Brian's presence than out of any
real desire to communicate.
"You know, Brian. They’re playing a goddamn sloppy game of
football today."
"Who
cares," yawned Brian, making a feeble move to attempt to shift the
conversation from the banal to the argumentative. "They're still ahead by seven
points."
Brian Revelson stood up,
stretched, and then paused a moment to take in a camera close-up of one of lovely blonde
Viking
cheerleaders, then, when the camera left her lovely features to lead into
"Halftime Highlights," for an update of the scores of other games
being played around the league, he ambled off in the direction of the bathroom. A couple quarters of beer drinking were
putting the blitz on his kidneys.
Porter sighed, stretched
his legs and idly let his gaze wander back to the television screen. A succession of
Brian
re-entered the room. His presence pulled
Porter momentarily out of the quicksand of his thoughts. He focused on the television screen just in
time to catch the end of the halftime show.
The lead majorette had just punctuated the end of her routine by tossing
her baton to an ungodly height and catching it and flashing a beautiful smile
for the camera. Who cared. She was good looking though. She couldn't have weight much more than a
hundred pounds, and Lawrence would bet that ten of those were her tits. She made a lovely image, with her soft
Scandinavian features framed by long blonde tresses. Regrettably, her image was abruptly replaced by
the ex-athlete turned commentator.
Brandishing his virility like a first grader his teddy bear at a
"show and tell," his gravel-grained growl of a voice began its
redundant recap of the game's highlights for the fans who had just tuned onto
the contest, or perhaps for those who just needed their Neanderthal memories
jogged after the fifteen minute gap between the second and the third
quarters. Recapping game highlights
requires the adroitness of a politician during a dull game such as the one
Porter had been watching. The
beleaguered announcer had to work hard to generate any sort of excitement out
of a game that hadn't generated much more of a response than a shrug or a
gru
"Game
highlights," growled Porter to himself, as a raucous gang of distressing images
began to jostle their way into his mind.
He wondered what it would sound like if a "God" figure with a
voice like Howard Cosell was to dissect the "highlights" of a
person's life. Yeah. He and his co-anchors Michael and "The
Gabe" using stop-action and split-screen photography to stop one's life
and use it as an illustration; pausing to make censorious comments about the
blown plays, fumbled opportunities, missed assignments and the incompletions that comprise the sum of
existence for most of us. Now that
would be hell. Soon his mind began to
sort through the images that he would have to endure during the Last Judgment
analysis of his own life.
Always
he'd been an outsider. Even within his
own family while he had been growing up, he'd been regarded as "the
different" one. Uncertain in social
situations and unskilled as a conversationalist, he dismissed the social
amenities with loudly affected scorn, mocking the rituals that he couldn't feel
comfortable being a part of. Instead, he
immersed himself in the magical world of literature, and found ready admittance
to circles of characters that wouldn't subject him to soul-searing
scrutiny. He was more at home with the
Bennetts in eighteenth century England than with his graduating high school
class. He felt more at ease with Huck,
Tom and Jim on a raft on the Mississippi than at a homecoming dance. Loneliness clung to him like cobwebs to a basement
corner ceiling as he watched his high school years pass by in a flurry of pom
poms and pep rallies.
Sometime
during the end of his junior year in high school he discovered that alcohol
helped. Strange It had always been at his elbow; his parents
were popular, party-loving "happy" drinkers, to whom a friendly
gathering
without alcoholic beverages was as unpardonable a sin as an abortion would be
to a Catholic. Still, having been
brought up to tolerate rather than to disparage drinking, he'd never really
felt that drawn to it. He began to drink
because it helped to numb his discomfort in social situations. With a drink in his hand he felt more at ease
in a roomful of people. Before long an
evening of imbibing would banish his feelings of isolation as well. His inhibitions would retreat before the
onslaught of alcohol as conviviality embraced him in drunken fellowship. Liquor made him feel like he imagined
everyone else did.
He closed his eyes as he
grimly recalled his first sexual experience.
No love, not even acceptance; just two
lonely people groping
toward fulfillment in a state of intoxicated numbness. Good God!
What a farce he'd
made
of love. The two of them were both too
embarrassed afterwards to even speak to each other for a long time, and when
they finally did resume speaking, the topic of that one night's indiscretion,
by tacit agreement, never was discussed.
More instant replay. His
years of intellectual posturing in college and his humiliating subservience to
the
deities, probably because
at that time in his life he'd envisioned himself ascending to their Pantheon as
well.
politics, the rivalries,
their grant-scratching and the ‘publish or perish’ demands of the academic
jungle. It
The projector continued to
run, ridiculing his pompously posturing self-important first attempts at
writing,
had probably spoiled him;
it had made it too easy to retreat into himself and lurk unseen in the shadows
of
life rather than having to
interact with people. If he would've had
to work for a living he would have been
forced to interact with the
world, or at least have to learn to get along with his co-workers. "Oh well," he
sighed. No matter.
Whatever path he would've taken he probably would've found a way to
remain just a
bit player in the drama of
existence. Some flotsam was always
destined to wash ashore at Lethe. It
just
depended on whom the
current took hold of.
One of Lawrence Porter's
reoccurring nightmares was that of a Jehovah authority figure spewing Jonathan
Edwards’s rhetoric in a
voice as grating as Howard Cosell's.
This vindictive deity would flash fifty to a
hundred of the most sordid
and embarrassing images of his life before the assembled multitude of s
also waiting to be
judged. The deepest pit of hell that he
could think of would be to have one' prid
punctured for all eternity;
no sin overlooked, no shame withheld and no chance to redeem one's self-respect
afterwards
by patching and re-inflating one's punctured ego. Being too aware of his own shortcomings, he'd
never had much regard for himself, and since he felt unworthy of being loved,
he'd never been much good at expressing love for someone else. Lawrence Porter had carried this isolation
even further by constructing a facade of diffidence and cynicism so completely
between himself and the world that even the Berlin Wall seemed less formidable
by comparison. Only he knew that it was
a pose, and only Brian Revelson, his closest friend, suspected as much. Or at least Lawrence Porter suspected that he
did. It made him feel a bit insecure to
think that another human being was so close to divining the truth about
him. Yes, he would have to take extra
pains to apply more mortar to the wall he'd constructed around him.
Mired
in this mind-clutching bog of self-absorption, Porter scowled as he heard the
bathroom door open. No, he wasn't ready
to converse with anyone right now.
Especially Brian. The
refrigerator door was opening. Good. Brian was coming back with a couple more
beers. That would help. Revelson made it back into the living room
and handed his friend Porter a beer just as the Vikings kicked off to the
Giants."Hey,
Brian!" Porter yelled excitedly to
his friend who still had his back turned to the television set. His train of thought suddenly yanked out of
the morass that it had been mired in by the tow hook of a play on the football field. "The goddamned idiot returner just
fumbled!"
"Great. Where'd we recover?"
"On
the sixteen. God, you should've seen the
hit! A real bone-crusher. It was beautiful! I'll bet the ball-carrier never knew what hit
him. He was totally annihilated."
The
Vikings lined up quickly, poised for a drive into the Giant's end zone, but
their first play from scrimmage, a quick-opener, was closed up quickly by the New
York middle linebacker for less than a yard gain.
Think they'll try to bust
it up the center again?"
The Viking quarterback, Joe
Kapp, took the snap and rolled out to the left.
The defensive end shoved aside
his blocker and put heavy
pressure on the quarterback. Kapp ducked
to the right and eluded the purs
but
the seconds it took to do this allowed the remainder of the New York front four
to close in upon him. He hurled the ball
over their outstretched hands, but in doing so he'd thrown it past his
receiver's grasp as
well. Incomplete.
"Third and nine,
Porter. What now
"He has to
throw."
They watched intently as the Viking quarterback took the snap and faded back to pass. The four defensive
They watched intently as the Viking quarterback took the snap and faded back to pass. The four defensive
linemen
came hard at him again, clawing past Kapp's blockers, their arms outstretched
like demons in pursuit of a damned soul.
The quarterback was forced to get rid of the ball too quickly, and it
lost momentum and dropped in front of the receiver who had turned and dived
frantically to try to catch it before it hit the
"Well, at least
they'll get a field goal out of it," Brian said, cloaking his
disappointment in the consolation
"Big deal,"
Porter muttered disgustedly.
"It's good,"
Brian finished nonchalantly as the ball sailed through the uprights. You could say one
about Fred Cox, the Viking
kicker; he was dependable.
The game slogged through in
torpid fashion after the field goal.
Neither team could invoke the prop
incantation of plays to
pierce the defenses thrown up against them.
The game degenerated into a
frustrating exchange of
punts, made more dismally disappointing by the futility of the series of plays
that
had preceded them. Neither team played with any imagination. The thirteen to three Viking victory was as
unsatisfying as warm beer
to football aficionados like Lawrence Porter and Brian Revelson. It was the
kind
of victory that Porter would disparagingly refer to as "lacking
class." To him the beauty of
football was that of an audacious offensive success. Who won?
Who cared. The victory hadn't
been achieved in a
magnificent fashion.
It was Sunday, but the
Chairman of the Board of the Vacation Odyssey Resort Corporation wasn't
watching
football. He had the survey, pictures of, and a
topographical map of the plots of land in Lethe, Minnesota,
known
locally as "The Fishermen's Harbor" laid out on the oak work desk in
his office at his home. He smiled with
satisfaction as he looked at the architect's rendition of what the resort
complex in Lethe would look like. Yeah, this project looked more than just
feasible. It looked like a
"no-brainer." The land could
probably be acquired inexpensively, maybe even for nothing if the village
leadership could be successfully cajoled or bullied into signing it over to his
corporation in the name of "generating economic gro
Yes, it was Sunday, but he
hadn't amassed his fortune by using Sunday as a day of rest, and his employees
who
wished to advance in the corporation learned quickly that they'd better be
ready to jump on weekends as well when he picked up the hoop. Reaching for the phone, he dialed the number
of Mordecai Fisher, the firm's Vice President in charge of Public Relations.
"Fisher
speaking."
That's
what he liked about the man. No wasted
verbiage. He got right down to the
basics. "Hello, Mordecai. Don here.
I've been studying the North Shore of Lake Superior information that's
been put together, and I think the project looks like a go. In fact, I'm surprised that no one has jumped
in to develop the village before us. I
think that it looks like a great location, and we can probably get the acreage
that we need pretty cost-efficiently.
You said that the next council meeting is scheduled for tomorrow
morning. Right?"
"Yes," Fisher
replied, familiar with the routine.
"Yes. I know how to proceed," Fisher reminded
him. "Lethe's mayor didn't seem too
enthusiastic though.
easy-going
enough, but if he balks at all I may have to find an ally or two on the village
council to work with instead."
Lafferty's end of the phone
was silent.
"Anyway," Fisher
reassured him. "I know how to
proceed. I'll be up in Lethe in time for
tomorrow’s
meeting, and I'll call you
as soon as it's done with."
"Good."
Lafferty hung up the phone,
then walked over to the table where the topographical map of Le
the blow-up map of the
Fisherman's Harbor area were laid out.
He began moving some of the different
colored pins that signified
parking areas, sewer and water lines, utilities, then marked where he thought
would be the most likely
route for an access road. He played with
moving the model of the proposed
motel complex to face
slightly one way or another, always taking care to keep the view of the Lake
paramount in his
considerations. To Donald Lafferty these
pins and the mock-up of the motel were the
chess pieces of capitalism,
and he would be playing for higher stakes than any Grandmaster ever
dared dream of.
He walked over to the map
of the United States that hung above the credenza and wet bar in his office.
Pins studded with tiny
amethysts marked the locations of Vacation Odyssey Resorts from Maine's
Acadia to California's Big
Sur. He reached into a small drawer and
took out a pin from the mahogany
premature perhaps, but he
didn't foresee any problems that couldn't be bought off. He poked the pin
into the site of his newest
endeavor, a Vacation Odyssey Resort on the North Shore of Lake Superior.
join him as soon as he
returned from the refrigerator with a couple more beers. It didn't take Porter long;
when he returned, he
took his usual seat behind the ivory pieces.
Porter always played "the white."
This arrangement suited
them both very well, since the two of them were evenly matched but
diametrically opposed
styles of play. If Brian was able to
wrest the initiative from Porter by blunting
his initial attack, he
usually won. Porter seldom had the
patience to play well in a constricted, defensiv
game. If he were able to coordinate his attacks
though, he could usually polish Brian off in a successfu
series of moves so artistic
and flowing as to exemplify chess at its most beautiful.
Porter began the game with
his standard opening; taking a long, confident draw on his beer while moving
his
pawn to king four. Brian countered
automatically. The initial moves
normally went quickly with neither player lifting his eyes from the board or
breaking the silence. Their chess, like
their football had developed into a ritual where conversation had been set
aside unless it had something to do with the progress of the game. Brian made his sixth move; pawn to queen
four. Lawrence still held the initiative
though.
"Alright then,
Brian. I'll take your knight
"Suits me," Brian
shrugged, trying to mask his annoyance at how the game was progressing for him
with
an air of
indifference. "You've lost your
bishop.
"Check."
The loudest sound that
either man could hear was the gentle play of the waves upon the beach that
snugged up to the bank
below Lawrence's cottage. More
automatically than anything else, Brian move
his king out of
danger. His mind was drifting away from
the game. His fiancée, a girl from St.
Paul, hadn't
been able to drive up to
Lethe in two weeks, and he'd been too busy to head down to see her. Sure, they
talked on the phone daily, running
up a phone bill that the frugal Edith Babbins would've consider
scandalous frivolity, but
it just wasn't the same. Ma Bell hadn't
effectively found a way to transmit th
important subtle nuances of
communication. Absent was the subtle,
teasingly erotic scent of he
perfume, and he missed the
opportunity to brush her thick, long black hair away from her face just before
he pressed his body close
to hers. All the phone gave him was her
voice. She had just one week left
in the regional office of
Ned Kelly Insurance, the company that Brian represented as an agent. Frantically
attempting to tie up all
the loose ends for the girl who would replace her, she really had been too busy
to
justify the nine hour round
trip from St. Paul to Lethe for just a weekend visit. Brain sighed, a relieved
end. Once she got her job squared away, she'd be
able to move up with him.
"Bishop to
knight-five." Porter was trying
with little success to suppress the smirk on his face.
Brian hadn't noticed. "Alright then," he countered. I'll take the pawn." He scowled at the board as
"Greedy son of a bitch," Porter chided him. "Check."
front of the battle line, its protection slowly being stripped away by Porter's profligate sacrifice of
pieces. As we so often demonstrate in the games we play, Lawrence Porter, as a gamester, was the
antithesis of what he was in life. Daring, audacious and confident enough to take the necessary risks,
he was setting Revelson up for the coup de grace. Porter deliberated for some moments, pursing his
lips with determined resolve as he prepared to make his seventeenth move.
up a trap with what he thought would be irresistible bait for his friend to snap up. Now the question
was...would he?
"Bishop takes queen." This time Brian assumed that it was his turn to smile smugly. Porter stifled
a grin of his own, though he was pleased at the confirmation of his own assessment of his friend's character. Yes, Brian
Revelson was a greedy son-of-a-bitch.
Brian's face, which had been glowing in triumph, slowly faded into dismay. His brow wrinkled as he
desperately surveyed the board, looking for a way to sidestep the defeat that was staring him in the
face with such indifferent certainty. There was no way to prevent it. Porter had maneuvered him into
forced mate in one more move. Revelson tipped his king with a disgusted flick of his finger.
"You're right," he acquiesced nobly. In lieu of a sword to offer to Porter, he suggested what he was
sure would be an acceptable alternative. "Let's have another beer."
Outside the sunlight had
retreated onto the water from the back deck, moving toward its slowly
setting star. It was cutting a wide red, but now a
perceptibly darkening and contracting swath
across the water. The wind too was falling back before the
onslaught of the evening. One could
still hear the waves as
they washed upon the shore, but their movement was gentler now. Some of
the urgency with which they
had been clawing at the land had abated, and they now kneaded the
shore more like a cat does
its paws when contented. Night had
brought with it peace. So far.
Inside the cottage the two
friends were conversing quietly now.
Each new nugget of gossip was
unwrapped with the alacrity
of an eight year old tearing into a Christmas present. As the evening
progressed though, the
conversation became more serious as they both probed at each other's thoughts,
endeavoring to ferret out
the underlying truths and attitudes smoldering beneath the idle banter. They
knew each other well, as
best friends should, and most of the time one could sense if the other had
jettisoned honesty for the
security of being able to hide behind a pose.
Porter was guilty of this far
more than Revelson, but
usually Brian was tolerant enough to let him get away with it.
"What time is it,
Lawrence?"
"It's got to be close
to eight o'clock, I'd guess."
"You played way over
your head this evening. You polished me
off quickly in both games. Maybe I'd
be better off if we took up
something like backgammon instead."
"Yeah, but I was lucky
tonight," Porter admitted. "I
played a sloppy second game. You made
one
careless move and lost that
rook, some temporary loss of concentration.
I coasted to victory after
that. To be honest with you, I should be disgusted
with myself for taking so long to finish you off."
"Anything good on
television?"
"Never is,"
Porter growled, expressing his long-held contempt for the medium by the abrupt
way that
he dismissed it. "Why should tonight be any
different?"
"Going to make it to
Grumman's this coming Saturday night?"
"I suppose. Nothing better's likely to come up."
"Judy says that she'll
finally have things at her job organized enough for her replacement where
she'll
be able to drive up here
for the weekend."
"Good," Porter
smiled, endeavoring to change his expression into a lecherous, mocking leer for
Brian's
benefit. "I guess you'll have plenty of catching
up to do this weekend." He
continued his pantomime,
raising his eyebrows to
further belabor the insinuation.
"God, yes," Brian
readily admitted. "I'm so goddamned
horny that I've even been eyeing some of the
squaws that waddle into
town from the reservation. Desperate men
do desperate deeds," he laughed.
"Besides, Judy says
that it's about time that she meets our Best Man."
"Yeah. I'm anxious to check her out too,"
Porter laughed. The laughter seemed to
Brian to be forced
and labored though, as if
Porter were using it as a shroud to cover some hurt, some emotion that he'd
rather not let his friend
see. Envy perhaps? After an awkward pause he continued in the
same
transparently insincere
vein. "After all, she must be
someone really special if she could throw a halter
around Lethe's most
eligible bachelor."
"I guess you'll be
inheriting that mantle from me soon," Brian laughed. His mirth seemed forced as well.
He felt that he had a
pretty good idea about what was bothering Lawrence, and he was endeavoring to
put his friend's feelings
of loneliness and abandonment to rest.
He had a feeling though, that he wasn't
succeeding.
"No," Lawrence
replied slowly, covering this acknowledgement of his despondency with a wan
smile.
"Who'd want to throw
their lot in with me?"
He flushed, sensing that he
had perhaps touched a bare nerve of his self-awareness and had been jolted
by it. Immediately he made a move to switch the
conversation to a different current.
"I'm happy with my
life the way it is," he asserted with a smile, donning bravado like a
matador picking up
a cape to veer the
threatening conversation away from him.
"You can't beat a visit to a Duluth massage
parlor for getting rid of
the urge when it becomes unbearable.
"That's the best way," he continued,
applying further coats of
bravado whitewash to the fence that he'd built around himself to hide his
loneliness. "No romance, no commitment and no
responsibilities." He grinned
self-deprecatingly this time.
Lawrence suspected that
Brian probably knew that he'd abandon all that in a instant for just an
opportunity
to find someone that he
could have a meaningful relationship with.
Porter was uncomfortable enough
with the direction that the
conversation had turned down to clumsily attempt to change the direction
of it.
"Bringing Judy to
Grumman's Saturday night?"
"Of course,"
Brian laughed. "I've got to show
her off a bit." Brian's lips pursed
hesitantly before he
continued. "I suppose that you might have heard
that their niece will be there. She's
supposed to be
coming in from New York
Monday or Tuesday, I guess. According to
Dale, she's extremely good-looking,
but being a lawyer, he's
inclined to stretch the truth some, so don't accept his appraisal of her beauty
as irrefutable
gospel."
Revelson spun out the
information carefully. He knew his
friend well enough to know that, despite his
vehement protestations to
the contrary, that Porter had an insatiable curiosity about people. The fact that
she was pretty, of course,
made her that much more interesting.
Porter's hang-up was that he liked to
satisfy his curiosity and
yet keep his distance, never daring to get too close to anyone. Then, as if he
were upset with himself for
taking an interest in other human beings, he would disparage this interest,
referring
to his "voyeurism" as "a morbid fascination intellectually
comparable to watching ants move about in the confines of their ant farm. He found security in the protection that the
pose of a misanthrope offered; having grumbled to Brian Revelson far too often
that "to take any interest in the pitiful meanderings of Mark Twain's
"Damned Human Race" was as stupid an obsession as a person could
indulge in."
Porter's
face suddenly clouded. "Damn
it!" Brian thought to himself. "it looks as though I've said something to
set him off again."
"Remember
what I was talking about earlier?" he continued, his voice rising
sharply. "No commitments. No strings.
No ties." His words were
beginning to spew forth now in torrents of heated bile. Agitated, he stood up and began to pace about
the room. "What the hell would I
have any desire to meet her for?"
Brian watched his friend and had an epiphany of insight as he watched Porter
come to a boil after a few anguished moments of anguished mental recall. He had obviously been hurt once. Deeply.
Suddenly, Lawrence Porter's explosion of nervous energy abruptly ceased. He stood with his back to his friend and
looked out at the Lake for what seemed to be an interminable time, and then he
turned again to face Revelson and launched verbally into him.
"You'll soon find out,
Brian, that for every benefit that you derive from a relationship, you've got
to
sacrifice
something. Love is like a game of chess
that we just played. "Sure, you'll
get the companionship of a marriage partner.
Maybe if you're lucky, she'll become a friend." Lawrence Porter paused, mentally
formulating a continuation
of his diatribe.
During that pause Brian
opened his mouth as if to protest, but before he had an opportunity, Porter
Resumed, speaking in a
torrent of white-hot anger that buried any opportunity to respond to
its eruption.
"You'll no longer
have, Brian, the freedom to spend Sunday afternoons watching football as we so
often do. You'll have to subordinate your wishes to
hers, visit "her" relatives and even weigh and
balance your own moods so
as not to throw hers out of balance. Vis
versa. Maybe we'd all be better
off just living
alone."
"Like you are,"
Brian responded defensively
Porter gnawed doggedly on
Brian's retort for a couple of moments.
It seemed to enrage him even
further, as he resumed
speaking in a yet more bitter vein.
"The average American woman is a predatory
creature that stalks the
singles bars, supermarket aisles and church circles. Any venue she has to in
order to find a "meal
ticket" to latch onto like a parasite until she can completely drain his
independence
from him and have a nice
little lapdog provider."
Brian cringed again. Inwardly, of course. He was angry at Lawrence now but trying not
to let it rule him.
Porter was striking one of
his most obnoxious poses tonight. His
very worst; he had mounted the
pulpit of the First Church
of Bitterness again.
"Have you ever
noticed," Porter continued, eyeing his congregation of one with the smugly
triumphant
air of a super-aggressive
Baptist preacher of the Jerry Falwell ilk, "how a woman, if one allows her
to,
will lay hold of and bend,
twist and thwart the growth of her partner's self-reliance? Then she'll stuff
him into a little ceramic
flower pot that she's molded just for him.
She'll continue to prune and shape
him until he bears little
if any resemblance to himself. Rather,
he's become the kind of polite little
ornamental potted plant
that she's always wanted him to be."
"Frankly, I think
that's a crock," Brian finally protested.
He had no patience for or desire to listen to
where Porter's bullshit
conversation was leading to tonight. He
made up his mind to leave, realizing
that he wasn't up to having
to sit and endure his friend trying to shovel himself out of his barn load of
self-pity tonight.
He attempted a weak smile
and reached for his jacket. "I'd
better get going, Lawrence," he lied, a lame
attempt at an exit that
irritated Porter even further.
"Thanks for the games."
"Can't bear to hear
the truth, huh?" sneered Porter, whose jests were being driven home with a
heavy-handed meanness now
because he was angry at himself for having driven his friend off. "I've
touched a nerve,
huh?" The beer had no doubt dulled
his perceptiveness. If he would've
looked
closely at Brian’s face he
would've noticed a tautness in his expression.
He would've realized that
his comments were angering
his friend, and maybe he would've backed off.
But he was too
immersed in his own
pain. Friends are sometimes so used to
being allowed full freedom to express
their honest opinions and
feelings to each other, that they fail to notice when a door that opened a
touchy or offensive subject
has been abruptly slammed in their face.
Lawrence plunged onward,
enamored with the sound of
his own voice; oblivious to the look of annoyance on Brian's slowly
reddening face.
"The women that I've
met and have observed at their manipulating worst, Brian, have always been
an inhibiting
influence. Study any man whom you feel
hasn't reached his full potential.
Examine the
circumstances of his life
and you'll invariably find that a woman is responsible for his
predicament."
Porter paused, swaying
defiantly, daring Revelson to attempt to contradict him, inspired and
emboldened by the alcohol
that he'd consumed during the course of their competitive afternoon.
"Well then,"
Brian spat back. "Which woman is
responsible for your condition? One of
the whores
that you visit in
Duluth?" It was a blunt attempt to
snap his friend out of his rant by tossing his
sermon back in his
face. It didn't succeed.
"Hell," Porter
protested in a surprised and hurt voice.
You know what I meant. Don't
you?" He asked
the last question in a
supplicating tome of voice. It was an
unspoken appeal to Brian to take back
what he had said. Now.
Brian's scathing comment about Lawrence Porter's lack of direction had
strayed into forbidden
territory.
Brian was angry now too,
and he wasn't catching the nuances of hurt in Porter's anguished voice.
He wadded his anger up into
a ball of words and hurled them quickly back at Lawrence.
"No, I don't know what
you meant," he exploded. "I'm
sick of you shoveling your self pity at me
as though I'm some sort of
handy wheelbarrow. You're sick of
yourself, man. No amount of
ranting or raving or
placing the blame on someone or something else is going to heal your pain.
Jesus Christ, man! You don't hate women. You don't despise anything, really. The only thing that
you're disappointed with in
your life is yourself!"
For Revelson this was quite
a long-winded speech. Almost
instantaneously he regretted it. He
stepped back, nervously
flexing his fingers as he waited for his friend's reaction. The sudden
silence seemed to blanket
the room, but it was like the wadding in a cannon's muzzle. The fuse
had been lit and the flash
and roar of the explosion was imminent as he watched Lawrence's face
turn flush with fury.
"Cut the goddamned
amateur psychologist bullshit out, Revelson!" Lawrence Porter shouted in
a voice that quivered with
hurt, the voice of a wounded spirit that had been put on the defensive.
"What the hell do you
think you're doing? You can't file my personality
in some convenient little
pigeon-hole in your mind,
stamp it "solved" and dismiss it.
I'm too complex an individual for you
to be able to just stand
there and play "Freud" on."
"Yeah, you're complex
alright," Revelson countered sarcastically, his face reddening by this
time
as well as though Porter's
anger was contagious. "The only
complex thing about you is the huge
ego-trip that you're
on. If I had an ego as goddamned large
as yours, the damn thing would choke
me to death." Brian paused to catch his breath, and then
added, "You know? Sometimes you can
really come across as a
pompous, conceited bastard.!"
"Get the hell out of
here!" Porter yelled in a maddened
rage. His eyes were beginning to glisten
with
tears of hurt and anger.
"You're choking on it
now," a frustrated Revelson goaded him persistently. "It has wrapped itself
around the neck of your
ambitious soul and it is slowly strangling you to death!"
"Get out of here you
god damned son of a bitch!" Porter
started to step toward Revelson, his fists
clenched as if he planned
to pound Brian and his onslaught of analysis into a fallacy by beating
him into submission.
Brian Revelson didn't give
any ground, but in the moments that he braced himself to fend off an
assault from his friend,
his anger began to subside. Already
regretting uttering the words that had
brought both of them to
this confrontation, he decided that the best thing that he could do was
to go home.
"Goodbye Porter,"
he murmured softly as he began to back slowly out the door. He was rapidly
regaining his composure,
his anger abating to feelings of regret and sadness.
Lawrence Porter was still
livid though. "Get the hell out of
here and never come back!" he bellowed
at his friend.
The door slammed shut with
a divisive finality that punctuated the rift between the two men. Brian
ran his hand through his
thick blonde hair and then began to trudge dejectedly homeward. Damn Porter!
he thought bitterly. He wants someone to love and to love him as
much as anyone does. Yet he throws
obstacles like pose and
indifference on the tracks in an attempt to derail anyone who makes an effort
to
get close to him. Any woman who would desire to have a
relationship with him would have to work hard,
because he would be slamming
doors on her as fast as she could open them.
I suppose that this whole
thing blew up because of my impending marriage, Brain mused thoughtfully.
Porter's feeling more
lonely and isolated than he's felt in a long time, maybe more than he's ever
felt in
his life. But dammit!
It's his own fault. God, he can
be a pain in the ass sometimes! Under
the facade
of being completely
immersed in himself, he constantly finds ways to avert his gaze from an honest
appraisal of himself. How the hell can he ever find love when he
never lets his guard down long enough
for a woman to see him as
he genuinely is? Hell, Revelson chided
himself bitterly. I should have bitten
my tongue off instead of
losing my temper like I did. I should've
known that he'd choose to cloak himself
in anger rather than take
what I said in friendship. Brian kicked
a particularly offensive stone from the
sidewalk onto someone's
lawn. “Why should I care?” He consoled himself unconvincingly. He shouldn't
have begun to bad-mouth
Judy like he was doing. He's just
jealous. I suppose though, that I
should've
kept my goddamned mouth shut.
It was stupid of me to let him get me so worked up.
The sound of Brian's
footsteps slapped a soft, solemn dirge upon the sidewalk, as though they were
sounding taps on the death
of a friendship. Brian, lost in memories
of past camaraderie, sighed disgustedly
and balled both of his
hands into fists. A feeling of sadness
mingled with self-recrimination overwhelmed
him, and he whispered
aloud. "God, I feel so sorry for
him. What the hell is he going to do
with himself
now."
Porter swung open the
yellowed screen door with the cardboard beer advertisement taped on it. "Schlitz-
you
only go round once in life, so grab for all the gusto you can get." Stepping into the darkness, he entered "Barry
& Leona's Hideaway." It was a cozy,
dimly-lit tavern, seldom frequented by too many persons. The place was empty of customers this evening
except for two Indians sitting forlornly at one of the corner tables staring
vacantly at their almost empty beer bottles.
To finish them would mean that they would have to depart for home. Neither wanted to take that last swig that
would bring that depressing
inevitability any
closer. Porter plopped himself down at
the corner table that was furthest across the
room. He wanted nothing to do with anyone.
Leona, a plump, graying,
amiable voiced woman, shifted her bulk from behind the bar. She grinned at
him with the easy
familiarity of someone who had seen the vulnerable side of her customers
often
enough so as not to be
intimidated by them. She'd never cared
much for the bar when her husband Barry
was alive. It seemed a sin to spend so much of their
lives in such a dark, depressing atmosphere.
When
cancer took him away from
her though, she was touched by the kindness and concern shown to her by
customers that she'd up to
that point always taken for granted. Her
customers became her family, and she
fussed and fretted over
them like a kindly mother. Now one of
her favorite sayings was “you’ll find more
honesty and friendship in a
barroom than in any church.” Of course,
this new liberated attitude of Leona’s
didn’t meet with the
approval of some of her Christian neighbors.
"What'll ya have, Mr.
Porter?" She went through the
motions of wiping off the already clean table.
"Just bring me a
pitcher of beer, Leona. Schlitz."
She shook her head in a
mock-censorious manner as she slowly ambled back to behind the bar. She
drew a pitcher of beer from
the tap and rewashed an already clean glass.
One of the two Indians
struggled to his feet and
staggered toward a sawdust covered machine with bowling pins set at one end
of it. The purpose of the amusement was to
"bowl" by sliding what looked like a hockey puck into ten
pins that had long since
abandoned their ivory color to years of smoke, dust and age that had turned
them yellow as an old man's
teeth. This "bowling" activity
was usually accompanied by much clanging
of bells, whirring of
tumblers and other mind-irritating discord.
Lawrence Porter flinched as
he saw the Indian wobbling unsteadily up to the machine. The last thing he
wanted to hear was that
infernal racket. "Hey Leona,"
he shouted.
"Hold your horses, Mr.
Porter. I'm bringing your beer right
now."
"I'll buy a pitcher
for these two gentlemen as well."
"With theirs it will
come to four bucks, Mr. Porter."
"No
problem." He dug four wrinkled
bills out of his pocket and handed them to her.
Leona pulled them
into shape, and after
checking the faces to make sure that they were Washington's and not Honest
Abe's,
she nodded her thanks.
"Want me to put in a pizza
for you, or fix you a burger or something?"
"Nothing more for now,
Leona. Thanks."
She moved back to behind
the bar, the Indians nodded their thanks, and Lawrence poured himself a beer.
He poured it slowly and
deliberately; there was no sense in rushing anything. The way he felt tonight,
getting drunker and staying
drunk looked awfully desirable. But why
rush it? He absently drummed his
fingers on the
cigarette-scarred, glass-stained wooden table, leaned his chair against the
wall, and
commenced exercising his
right elbow by periodically bringing his glass up to his lips. "Damn it," he
kept repeating bitterly to
himself. "I really shouldn't have
gone off on him the way that I did."
Mentally he was
flagellating himself as ruthlessly as a faith-crazed Penitite for allowing
their quarrel to
rupture his and Brian's
friendship. If he'd only used his head
he could've squelched the entire exchange
with a self-deprecating
joke. If he'd only used a little
self-control he wouldn't have let Brian get under
his skin like he did. He glanced with annoyance at his glass. Done already?
He poured himself another.
What the hell, he decided,
with a sudden determined resolve that would make him feel better for the next
few moments. He would make an attempt to straighten things
out in the morning. Maybe he would go
over to Brian's place and
attempt to frame a suitable apology for him.
One that hopefully wouldn't involve
serving him up too much of
his pride on a platter.
Porter glanced up,
momentarily startled by the rasping sound buzz of the screen door opening and
the
crash that immediately
followed when it swung back into place.
Three of the local residents had just
come in. From the smell that still clung to them like
an olfactory business card, even a tourist
would've been able to
figure out that they were fishermen.
They took off their windbreakers and
draped them over their
chairs. Dressed the way they were, they
would have been asked to leave most
bars. Here they bellowed Leona's name with coarse
familiarity as they settled themselves at a table
strategically between
Porter and the two Indians. Everyone had
their own space. Leona didn't have to
ask the fishermen what they
wanted; she came out from behind the bar as quickly as she could manage
with three bottles of beer
and three glasses, set them down, collected her money, and patted one of the
two younger men on the head
as she left them, grinning broadly at some ribald jest that one of the
younger fishermen had
whispered to her.
Porter could hear snatches
of their conversation. Evidently it had
been another day of poor fishing out
on the big Lake. The day's effort had been largely spent in
vain. The years of the independent Lake
fishermen were just about
ready to be relegated to the archives of various county historical societies.
Even a landsman such as
Porter knew this, and he saw it confirmed in the drawn and prematurely
lined faces of the two
younger men. They obviously had experienced
some hard times already during
their relatively short
lives. No doubt they'd been drawn to the
Lake from their earliest childhood, with
no other ambitions in life
other than to follow in their father's footsteps. The older man with them, Lars
Engstrom, was their
father. Everyone in Lethe knew the
Engstroms, of course. They were
"good people."
The old man's penetrating
blue eyes conveyed the experience and weariness of years of exhausting
physical labor to no
apparent end, and his weathered face looked as if it had been snagged in one of
the tools of his
trade. One could almost trace the lines
of a fishing net in the creases of his
weathered face.
Perhaps he realized the
futility of his sons endeavoring to continue the family tradition in the face
of
competition from the large
fisheries such as Silvertson's. Why
should they be out there risking their
lives and busting their nuts
when the average deadbeat who sat home and collected welfare lived as
comfortably as they did?
Porter wondered. They'd eat just as
well, stay just as warm, and would never
have to again challenge the
finger-numbing cold, bone-chilling winds and November rages of the
mightiest of the Great
Lakes. Perhaps though, the old fisherman
hadn't yet grasped the hopelessness
of his battle for
existence. He still perhaps saw his life
through the proud eyes of past success.
Either
way, Porter reflected
sourly, it really didn't matter. The two
younger men would no doubt attempt to
jam themselves, like pegs
from a child's pegboard, into their father's occupation until either the
occupation offered no
sustenance, or until they would wear themselves down physically, unable to
pursue their livelihood any
further. Hope would eventually fade
away, like the flush of a young man's
virile "brawn conquers
all" attitude that slowly dissipates with time.
The grizzled old fisherman
was speaking now in loud earnest tones.
His hands moved in eloquent
gestures that dramatized in
rapid succession: pulling up the biggest god-damned haul of fish ever
brought in to be weighed at
Grand Marais, the insane power and fury of a November Lake Superior
storm, and the collision of
the ore carrier "Emperor" with one of the jagged Canoe Rocks that
jutted
from a reef just north of
Isle Royale. Yes, the old man was
leafing through his scrapbook of
recollections of the
past. Porter could pick up every word of
his now as his rough voice thrust
its way to dominance over
the quiet of the room.
"I remember the time
that Orin Anderson.....you remember Orin Anderson, don't you boys? I've
told you about him before.”
The younger men both nodded
obligingly.
"Well," the old
fisherman continued. “Orin and Lars Rintalla.
You remember him too, don't you?"
This time the old man
didn't wait for their response.
"Well, anyway, Orin, Nels, Pete Robideaux
and me, we got caught in
that Big Blow of November 1940.
Armistice Day, I think it was.
Shit, I
was in my mid-thirties
then, and I had already put in close to half my life on the Lake by that
time, and I can tell you,
all bullshit aside," he said as he gazed intently at his two young sons.
"I ain't seen weather
that hellacious before or since on the Lake.
The goddamned weather experts
said that it was a
hurricane. Shit, they didn't have to
tell me that. The storm took down three
big iron ore boats in Lake Michigan, you
know."
"Another round?"
Leona queried from her stool behind the bar.
The old man nodded. She brought three more bottles of beer out to
them, then checked the other
two tables with a quick
glance. Seeing no one else in urgent
need of a refill, she returned to her
stool behind the bar again
to resume leafing through her copy of the” National Enquirer."
"Well, anyway,"
the fisherman continued. "We all
got caught up in this bitch of a storm.
Winds
were clocked at eighty to a
hundred and twenty miles an hour.
Believe me or not, two of the big
lakers that the storm took
down with all hands, the DAVDOCK and the MINCH, were the big
four hundred foot
lunkers!" He stretched out his arms
to emphasize their magnitude.
"Honest to
God," he
bellowed," the goddamned waves were pounding our boat like we swat at
mosquitoes
that light on our arms in
the woods. I've never been so goddamned
cold or scared in my life, and
believe me," he
shivered as he recollected the chill of November mornings on the Lake,
"I've been
in some goddamned cold
weather. The spray would freeze solidly
to the gloves of the guy at the
wheel to where it was
almost like he was wearing heavy work gloves made of ice."
His two young listeners
exchanged skeptical glances now.
Evidently their father's memories of the
storm were being supplanted
with some highly imaginative embellishments.
"We all had to take
our turn at the wheel for awhile," the old fisherman continued. A guy could only
stand the stress and the
cold for so goddamn long. We all had
donned our life-jackets, and held on for
dear life in the wheelhouse
as the storm knocked the boat about.
Shit, we were all black and blue when
we got home. Covered with bruises and cuts that we'd
received when we were knocked about. We
were too goddamned scared
to notice them during the storm. Our
boat was being tossed about like one
of those bouncing balls
that you see at a bingo parlor sometimes.
You know, the ones that go round
and round in those big wire
drums."
"Yeah, I know what you
mean," agreed one of his sons.
"Well
anyway," Engstrom continued. "The weather eventually became so
goddamned terrible that we
finally had to just abandon
the wheel and hunker down in the corners of the wheelhouse, trusting
to God's mercy as to
whether we'd ride out the storm or join the dead sailors at the bottom of the
Lake. We let the Lord grab hold of the wheel, and
with him piloting the boat, we made it safely
through the rest of the
storm. He took care of us just like he
took care of Father Baraga."
Fearing that his boys might
not realize who the good Father was, he explained. "Remember me
showing you boys the stone
cross and memorial plaque at the mouth of a small stream up the North
Shore. I forget the name of the stream, but it's a
ways up the shore, closer to Grand Marais.
Anyway,
Father Baraga was a missionary who labored around the Apostle Islands. He and a couple of his
parishioners got caught off
one of the outer islands during a storm, and they got blown clear across
the Lake, all the way to
its upper North Shore. The Lord took
care of them, though, and in gratitude
for his miraculous
deliverance, the good Father erected a large wooden cross where he landed. There’s
an impressive stone monument
there now. I know how Father Baraga must
have felt. I experienced
that same protection of the Lord during that
hellacious Armistice Day storm.
The old fisherman paused to
quench the fire in his throat with a long swallow of beer, then quickly
resumed his monologue.
"Yah, the good Lord
took care of us. I'm still alive and
kickin. Orin and Nels lived on for quite
a few
years too, but Pete didn't
make it past the winter of fifty-two.
Just slipped through a patch of thin ice
while he was setting up his
ice fishing shack, I guess. The shack
broke through with him. I figure
that the good Lord decided
that his time was up. Maybe he had
family in heaven who wanted him
there with him. I'll tell you boys again though. If the Lord hadn't have cared about the fate
of our
little fishing boat, and if
we hadn't have put our faith in him to take care of us, we never would have
been able to survive Lake
Superior's worst on our own. We finally
ran aground, with no injury to
ourselves, and damn little
to our boat, on a sandy beach on Duluth's Park Point."
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