On a tip, I came to Little Rock to meet two men who had
started a firm dealing in urban planning and development. That’s what the name
said on the door. That’s what I expected to find, and I did. Ushered into the
president’s office, I met the two men I had come all the way to see.
Tom Hodges, the president, was the shorter of the two, an
athletic type with curly blond hair and an almost ruddy face. His partner (in
business, we have to say that these days) was Jim Vines, way beyond six feet in
height and ebullient in personality. We shook hands all around and I was
invited to sit.
They asked about me and I told them what I knew. One asked
me how I liked Vietnam and I said didn’t like it much at all. One asked how I
liked the Navy and I said I could take it or leave it, having just chosen the
latter option. One asked how I liked college and I said I liked it quite a bit
and would have stayed there indefinitely had I been able.
They asked about the courses I took. I told them. One asked if I had an
interest in writing. I told him had the U of A offered a “minor” program, I would
have qualified for a minor in literature. That seemed to get their attention.
They asked if had management skills. I explained that I had once
held the most significant management position in the United States Navy. This
was the truth, but I stopped short of explaining that it was as a Third Class
Bosun’s Mate. Though it was the truth, I was already perfecting the habit of not
telling someone everything you know the first time you met them.
They asked me if I was married. I said no, but then I hurriedly
hastened to say that I was looking forward to dating women now that my military
obligation was over. An unmarried 20-something in those days could
start rumors real fast, so I emphasized the word “women.”
They divulged that they had been fraternity brothers at Fayetteville in a highly prestigious fraternity. I had to admit that I couldn’t afford to
pledge one as I had to work my way through, but that I had a great deal of respect
for the Greek way of life. Having recently lied with ease to a two-star admiral,
I found no difficulty in lying to two civilians whom I had just met.
I actually considered myself sort of an honorary Greek, I
told them. I had been a janitor at the Chi Omega sorority house for a couple of
years as I slogged my way through college. That was the flagship sorority on
campus and had contained unequal portions of fine young woman, desperate husband
seekers, and pluperfect bitches. Tom divulged the fact that his wife had pledged
that sorority and I said no more about it. Ever.
They further divulged that Jim had finished his undergraduate
degree at what is now the University of Arkansas at Little Rock while Tom finished at Fayetteville. The two had
reunited at the University of Oklahoma where they had both garnered masters’
degrees in urban and regional planning. Tom had worked for a consultant upon
graduation and Jim had gone with the State of Missouri. Tom lured him back to Arkansas
to start their own firm and here they were.
Both Little Rock and the State of Arkansas, it seemed, had
begun to recover from the ignominy of the Central High School crisis of 1957.
Things were happening and they seemed quite pleased to be in on the very
beginning of things.
I was at my obsequious best and seemed to respond to inquiries
well. To my surprise, I used profanity neither for emphasis nor from long-ingrained
habit, and addressed each as “Mr.” until they told me to stop. They asked if I had any interest in urban planning. I employed my skill at prevarication once more and waxed eloquently, if I do say so myself, emphasizing my love for the city by the bay.
Then they showed me around. In addition to a receptionist, they
had a drafting squad of two, who were busily preparing maps. One was Paulette, an
attractive young woman with short black hair. The other was Donnie, a former college
football player with a grip that could crush a baseball. Each regarded me with
a great deal of suspicion.
“Tell you what, “Tom said to me as I prepared to leave. “We have things to do, but why
don’t you come back at twelve and we’ll treat you to lunch across the street?”
I agreed and we shook hands around once more. Then I found
myself on the streets of a strange city with more than an hour to spend. Having
wandered penniless in larger cities than this, I knew of one place where a
stranger could kill time without being under suspicion. That was, of course, the local Greyhound Bus Station.
A kind gentleman in no great hurry pointed me the way and
off I went, walking and looking. As I walked and looked, I wondered.
Those guys had fulfilled their promise to Charles Rush. They
were done with me, and by any standard had no further obligations. They had advised
me honestly that they knew of no job openings. They had things to do.
Why, then, were they taking me to lunch?
No comments:
Post a Comment