My Redacted Life: Chapter Three (Cont._10

I finished the first week of my new job back in 1971, and settled in. Want to know about my love life? There, that sums it up. Nonexistent. On the positive side, it gave me more time to study my adopted profession. I read a lot too, encountering fewer entanglements that way.

There were two women who shared an apartment across the hall. They both worked at Timex Corporation, a large concern that graced the city back when low-skilled jobs were available in the South. One was rather thin and possessed of more inner than outer beauty. The other was ample and possessed a wholesome “stay-away” attitude. Neither seemed overly impressed with my physique, and since we all thrived on scarcity, we became friends without benefits other than cordial conversations.

There was a third woman who lived downstairs, a very attractive person, but lacking a great deal of education. She worked with the other two. They say she was taking night courses at the local college, but before I got to know her, she disappeared. After awhile, the girls told me that she had trusted a supervisor at the plant once too often. He chose to stay married, and she returned to her hometown in the Arkansas Delta. There was a shoe factory there at the time. Maybe she found work therein, but it closed not long after. What happens to such individuals? I wish I knew.

Payday came, and with a small supplement withdrawn from savings, I managed. For the first time in years, I established a routine that wasn’t totally mandated by higher authorities. Tom gave me a key to the office, and I made a decision that would greatly affect both my career and my future.

For the foreseeable future, I mandated to myself that, on normal work days, no one in the company would ever see me get to work, and no one would ever see me leave. You would be amazed at the outcome.

It really wasn’t that hard. No one arrived before 8:00 a.m., so I didn’t have to rush. We usually worked late, but I would simply remain when the others left. On some days, my total sacrifice was less than 45 minutes, but it made me a legend.

I always arrived in time to visit the snack area on the ground floor of the building. It was one of those stands officially known as vending areas established by World Services for the Blind, an institute located in Little Rock. They were operated by visually-challenged folks and known irreverently by a term that would make the Political Correctness Police sail into orbit, “blind stands.” At least that’s all I ever heard them called.

The counter contained a sunken metal bowl where one placed money. The operators could count change like a carnival barker at a striptease show, but only by feel. They say some could tell the difference among paper bills of differing denominations, but I never put that to the test. I seem to remember the operator in our building was named Carl. I’m not quite sure. He was a jolly character who, in addition to selling goods, also served as “gossip-central.” He could tell you by your footsteps, and phrase his daily report accordingly.

The only time I ever remember him and me having a problem with communications, was when he was trying to tell me about a ne’er-do-well tenant who was suffering from “the collapse.” A stroke? No. Muscle problems? No. Back or knee problems? No. After much back and forth banter, we came to the understanding that the poor fellow had “dillyed” with the wrong “dally” and would be back at work following a round of penicillin, a moral lesson from which to be instructed, both in communication and behavior.

I’d buy a breakfast snack, a cup of coffee, and the daily newspaper: the grand old Arkansas Gazette. Then I would go upstairs and prepare to continue my new career.

Life was good. To borrow a line from Dylan Thomas, someone who knew me then would say of those days, “He was almost always happy, I think.”

My Redacted Life: Chapter Three (Cont._8)

January 1971: Back at the office, I settled into my new job. Having told by boss Jim about finding a typo in a published report, he made me proofreader. My fellow shipmates would have found that a hoot if any of them knew what a proofreader did.

Anyway, I was minding my own business one day, a week or so into the job, when the head of the drafting room walked over to my desk, plopped a dollar-bill down and said, “Run down to the Post Office and get a dollar’s worth of postage stamps.” I think they were eight cents apiece at the time, so that would buy a lot.

But, “Run down to the Post Office?” What was I, a marathoner? I had stopped a two-pack a day habit only a year earlier, and had gained 30 pounds as a result. Run down to the Post Office? What was I, a summer high-school student running errands, or a house-servant “fetching for Massa?” I felt, as they say these days, disrespected.

I looked at the other drafter. She cocked a smile like a cat watching a mouse. Hunger gleamed in her eyes.

I took the money and left. I didn’t run, though. In fact, I walked very slowly up Capitol Avenue toward the Post Office. Run down to the Post Office? Hell, I once drove the official “barge” of a two-star admiral in the United States Navy. Christ, once they entrusted me with an M-60 machine gun and told me I could fire on anything in front of me that moved. Hell, I could tie a fifteen-strand “Turk’s Head” knot.

But, “run down to the Post Office?” Intercourse that. I spent the walk there and back computing just how long I would have to keep a job running errands so that it would look good on a resume once I reached California. They could take their “run down to the Post Office” and stick it up their hawser-pipe.

I arrived back at the Hall Building and said to the old girl, “Just stick with me for six months and I’ll be the hell out of here.

Upstairs, I laid the stamps and change on the layout table and didn’t say a word. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway for both drafters were bent so hard at work that their noses almost touched their boards. I settled down and started making notes of potential employers that might be waiting for me in the Golden State once I finished my incarceration in Little Rock.

I looked up to seen Jim Vines standing in the hall motioning for me. I stood and followed him into his office. He closed the door, motioned for me to sit, then sat himself. He placed his fingertips together and said in a voice that could have eulogized a dead saint. “I’m afraid that we have made a mistake.”

Oh hell. It was coming. I wasn’t even going to make the six months. If the worst came to worst, though, the Navy would take me back in and send me to Officer Candidate School. They had already contacted me and told me so. I stared back at Jim with what I was sure could not be misinterpreted as anything but defiance. “Do not go gently …”

He continued. “We didn’t bring you into the firm to run errands. Furthermore, we didn’t bring you here to work for anyone but Tom and me.” (He actually said “Tom and I,” but I’ll clean up his grammar out of a long-standing respect.) “The staff knows that now and there will be no repeat of today’s incident. Now, would you like to ride up to Harrison with me tomorrow to their planning commission meeting?”

I allowed as how I would, without commenting on the other part of the conversation. Walking back into the drafting room, thoughts of OCS began to fade. They were replaced by the smell of a roaring fire of resentment flowing from across the room. As for myself, I imagined that I probably gave off a faint smell of sulfur.

Sitting down, I mentally fastened my seat belt.

Was I headed for a rocky ride?

My Redacted Life: Chapter Two (Cont._9)

So I had a job, a real one, awaiting me in two weeks. During that time, I enjoyed Christmas of 1970 with my family and read a lot about urban planning. I found that it had a rich history dating all the way back to the Sumerians and beyond. I also drank a lot of beer with a cousin who was recuperating from back surgery.

From my readings, I learned that things don’t change easily and to be aware of that is a necessity for the privilege of participating in a democracy. As Cicero said, “To be ignorant of what occurred before you were born is to remain always a child.”

From my cousin, I learned about the vicissitudes of life. That came in handy over the years. The professional world is not always a gentle rain forest but can be a teeming jungle as often as not.

I purchased a few changes of clothes, hoping that no one would notice the abbreviated cycle of wear. I even purchased my own—my very own—necktie. I had a pair of black shoes left over from the Navy, the kind that stayed shined. Years later, I would actually own two pairs of dress shoes, a sure sign of my growing success. That was in the future though. Right now, I was among “the undeserving poor.”

One Monday morning, my brother and I drove to Little Rock to seek an apartment. Armed with the morning copy of the venerable Arkansas Gazette, we entered the city. There were new apartment complexes by then, some even boasting of swimming pools. I could scarcely afford one of them, so there was no use in looking. That relegated us to the older parts of the city.

That, of course, meant the more interesting parts. There were large mansions still standing. Near those mansions, inevitably, were smaller homes within walking distance. The wealthy have always required cheap help. At one of the mansions, a structure apparently long neglected, I saw a young couple diligently scraping paint. “Interesting,” I thought.

We found a nice place in the midst of this neighborhood of fine homes. The landlord, upon finding that I was a recently discharged veteran, demanded a list of references and an outrageous deposit. I gave her a sanitized version of, as they say these days, “Bite me.”

Eventually, the ad section of the Gazette placed us in front of what had once been a fine, luxurious apartment building at the southwest corner of Capitol and State streets. It too, suffered from neglect, but class is a hard feature to abandon. Across the street was a Pontiac Dealership. A few blocks west was the last boarding house I remember seeing in America. I had considered it but was tired of communal living, if you could call living with 30 other men in a room the size of a large living room “communal living.”

I opted for the grand apartment building. Steps led up between two brick entry structures into what had, obviously been a luxuriously landscaped courtyard. The manager had an apartment on the ground floor. There was another across the courtyard and two more upstairs. The top one on the west side was for rent.

Goodness gracious. The apartment had a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, two bedrooms, a bath, a back porch, and a large foyer lined with custom-built closets and cabinets. You could have housed the entire complement of a Navy destroyer within its walls. It was reminiscent of a scene from the movie Sunset Boulevard

It could all be mine, and mine alone, for $30 a month plus utilities. The faded grandeur, the space, the fact that I could walk to work, and the lack of “veteran-suspicion” convinced me. There was no parking, but who cared? I would be the newest resident of this fine city in just a few days. I signed the papers, paid the deposit and the first month’s rent, and told the manager I would move in on the Second of January. She said I could go ahead and start setting up the utilities immediately. She gave me the key, we shook hands, and I left.

Outside, the sun was shining on a new world. I hoped that I was brave enough for it.

Look out world.
Here I come.

My Redacted Life: Chapter Two (Cont._8)

There I was, barely three weeks out of the United States Navy and I had an offer to come to work with a professional firm of urban planning consultants in Little Rock. Man alive! I guess I could kiss San Francisco, California goodbye.

There was a catch, of course. There always is. Since they had not harbored any intent of hiring anyone, they hadn’t programmed a salary, thus … they could only afford to offer me $400 per month to start. It wasn’t a princely sum for a professional. I would be informed later that secretaries in my home town earned more than that.

But hell, it was more than the minimum wage of $1.60 an hour back in 1971. It was indoor work and I didn’t have to suffer the indignity of carrying a firearm. (I’ve never understood why that causes such a sexual rush among some folks.) But their offer implied that magic word: experience. On the other hand, it meant dropping anchor, at least for a temporary berth, in Arkansas. Of course, if the seas proved choppy, I could always continue sailing west.

I said it sounded fine.

We finished lunch and walked back across the street to the office. I was re-introduced to staff. They learned that I would be entering their ranks on the first Monday in 1971. With the exception of the receptionist, they didn’t seem horribly excited at the news.

The young woman, Paulette did ask me where I had worked previously. I told her and she smiled. Her husband and I would have much to talk about. He was currently serving in the Arkansas National Guard. I said I’d bet that was true, although I didn’t really mean it. The other drafter said he would see me later and went back to work. I looked around and shook my head in wonder, all this room and comfort in which to work.

Since I would be learning the urban planning business without the benefit of an advanced degree, the guys gave me some textbooks to read in my spare time. Names that were strange then, like Halprin, Mandelker, and Burnham, would become old friends in time, along with others.

I drove back into my home town like a conquering hero. Needless to say, Sainted Mother was ecstatic. I could live at home and drive back and forth. She knew folks who did that. It took some talking to convince her otherwise. My more pragmatic brother agreed to go and help me find a place to rent in Little Rock by the first of the year.

Things were falling into place. I could spend some of my travel money on extra civilian clothes. I would just see how this urban planning thing worked out. I would be starting a resume at worst, and finding a life’s passion at best. One little hiccup in this job, or the unthinkable return of Orville Faubus, could release me to head back to a nice little berth somewhere near Golden Gate Park. There was nothing to tie me down, no rigging that I couldn’t unloosen to set sail again.

Not far away, in the sleepy little town of Conway, Arkansas, that beautiful young college girl I mentioned earlier was probably getting ready for a date. Maybe she had just washed her long red hair and was gently drying it while thinking of her future. Would she have a long career in teaching? Would she marry her current boyfriend? Would she return to her home town after graduation to teach and look after her own parents, being a loving and dutiful only child? Would she ever travel? What lay ahead on that long and inviting road?

One thing she probably knew well, as she looked at herself in the mirror. She would have her choice in men. There was no reason to hurry things. Maybe she hummed a tune from the latest James Bond movie. Maybe she studied her face. She didn’t need much makeup, just a tad here, a tad there, and let her natural looks do the rest. Maybe she just placed a couple of “doodads in her hair and smiled, for some reason or other.

What?

My Redacted Life: Chapter Two (Cont. _7)

Okay, so I had traveled to Little Rock to visit two young urban planners and find out about job prospects. They knew of none. That’s what I had expected. I should be on my way back to my boyhood home now, with the developing skyline of Little Rock in my rearview mirror. I should be planning my route back to California, this Arkansas caper at its end. Sex, drugs, and cable cars beckoned.

But no. They had invited me to lunch and there I sat, in the Greyhound station waiting for the time to go and meet them. Idled passengers napped, optimistic young ladies in short dresses mingled, children squirmed and bounced, and this entire cross-section of America seemed to sense something better just over the next horizon.

I waited and watched. Over the last four years, I had gotten good at that. One of the young ladies offered to give me anything I wanted if I happened to be interested. A job? Well no, something else. I’m fine. Too bad.

I waited some more. What would we talk about at lunch? I had already confessed to them that I had little to offer a potential employer in terms of experience or skills. I had learned to exist in close quarters with a wide diversity of other people and I knew how to get a job done just in time, not too soon, and not too late. I did share with them that I was anxious to gain experience and skills and was well aware of the fact that I possessed little marketability in the civilian world. In other words, I could be a cheap, but inexperienced date for the right employer.

At last the time came to depart. As the last of the wandering girls headed my way, I stood, winked at her, and walked back out onto Little Rock’s Main Street. It was bustling with folks headed for lunch, or somewhere. I passed the site of the F.W. Woolworth store where, at 11.a.m. March 10, 1960, some 50 brave students from Philander Smith College had marched from campus, were refused service at the whites-only lunch counter, and were arrested for their uppityness.

Things were changing in America, even in Arkansas. I thought this was good and wondered what all the fuss had been about. Of course, though, the United States Navy hadn’t allowed segregated eating facilities since the Truman Administration, way ahead of the curve, as they say today.

A person thinks odd thoughts when alone on a big city street. I began thinking about the various forms of bravery. There was the combat zone kind, the storm at sea kind, and the demanding human rights kind. I didn't think for long though, I was already back at the Hall Building.

The guys didn’t take me to a lunch counter. They took me to a place called “The Capitol Club,” and it was fancy, cloth napkins and the whole bit. I’m sure I looked a bit out of place among all the suits. Jim Vines was even wearing a three-piece one. Tom showed a great deal of self-assurance by wearing a sports coat. Between the two of them, they seemed to know everyone who walked by. I didn’t know a soul.

A waiter came. Tom knew him by name, or seemed to. It was long before the time in Little Rock at which one ordered cocktails at lunch. I watched them closely and when they ordered iced-tea, I did the same. I remembered what a girl friend in college had told me about her mother’s advice to a daughter who had begun dating. “Don’t order the most expensive item on the menu, and don’t order the cheapest. Order something that looks healthy and wouldn’t be difficult to eat in public.

I didn’t have to worry on that account. The Capitol Club offered neither barbecued ribs nor corn on the cob. I ordered the same thing Tom Hodges did. A person couldn’t go wrong that way.

Some small talk ensued as we dined. Jim told a funny story about a planning commission meeting he had attended. Tom asked me about a legendary football player from my home town named James “Jitters” Morgan. I was proud to say I knew him and graduated a year behind him. Turns out Tom had played against him in high school and still remembered the bone-jarring tackles. He asked about a girl he knew from college, and I said I thought she got married and moved away. Too bad, he said, with a far-off look in his eyes.

Was this it? Lunch in a fancy place with small talk? I had begun to assess the time I had left to endure this. Once again, I could hear the ships sounding in San Francisco Bay and hear the seagulls fighting overhead. I took a bite, one that was to prove the most difficult in my life to chew and swallow.

Jim looked at Tom. Tom nodded and looked at me. I took the fork from my mouth and looked back at the two of them.

“We thought,” Jim said, slowly as was his habit when putting a lot of thought into what he said, “that we might offer you a job.”                  

Well I'll swan.

My Redacted Life: Chapter Two (Cont. _6)

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?

My Redacted Life: Chapter Two (Cont._5)

After I found a place to park in Downtown Little Rock, I walked over to Capitol Avenue and took a look. Wow. Two new high-rise bank and office buildings graced the street amidst old buildings that still held their charm. One of the new buildings, I was to learn, was called “The Worthen Building” and the other “The Union Building,” both after the banks housed within.

I stood in front of one of the older structures. The sign on front identified it as “The Hall Building” and placed it at 501 East Capitol. That’s where I was headed, to the fifth floor. I had no idea what to expect. A camera shop occupied the ground floor. I made a mental note to stop there on my way out and swung open the heavy door to the  building. I had an appointment to talk to two young men about employment prospects in the greater Little Rock area. Whoop de do.

The lobby was ornately furnished after the old style. I took the elevator to the top floor, then walked out and down a hall to where a partially glassed door bore the words, “Urban Planning and Development Corporation.”

Beneath those words, I read:

Thomas L. Hodges, AIP

James A. Vines, AIP

All of the writing sparkled in gold leaf. It looked mighty high-class to me.

In my only decent set of civilian clothes, and wearing my borrowed tie, I walked in. I mentally rehearsed my lengthy credentials in the unlikely event that we talked long enough for them to come up in conversation.

- I had worked as a lifeguard summers while in college, easily the best job I’ve ever had, albeit somewhat short on retirement prospects.

- I had worked my way through college as a janitor at the Chi Omega sorority house, a “pen and ink” draftsman for the U of A Editorial Service, and part time bartender.

- I had worked one summer for an architectural firm in Monroe, Louisiana.

- I had been trained by the United States Navy to kill people, or at least to keep people from killing me and had spent a year employing said expertise.

- I had been trained by the United States Navy to rig ships, moor them, tie fancy knots, curse and bluster in a salty and seaman-like manner, drink with the best that proud institution had to offer, and drive boats. Along the way, I had held choice jobs due to an innate ability to kiss butts and stay out of the brig.

If that wouldn’t get my name on some fancy-assed door, I didn’t know what would.

I drew a deep breath and walked in, little knowing that my life would never be the same again.

Young, dumb, and full of ... wonder.

My Redacted Life: Chapter Two (Cont. _2)

Out of the military a couple of weeks, I was getting restless. Here I was, one foot out the door heading back to California, and the other responding to a mother’s request to find work in my hometown. Mothers win. Always.

It was early December of 1970, and she had convinced me to make one more try at dropping anchor in what she saw as life's safest harbor—home.

I wasn’t optimistic. So far, the folks in Arkansas hadn’t been real impressed with either my qualifications or my veteran status. I had been four years away and my puny Bachelor of Arts Degree seemed a distant and impotent achievement. Peers who had evaded the Draft had been learning and earning for four years while I languished, or so it seemed to me then.

The Honorable Discharge, such a proud achievement and sine qua non of my youth was now being pretty much translated as “chump.”

But my cousin Troy, with whom I was very close, worked for the city and knew the Director of the Urban Renewal Agency in Pine Bluff, a nice fellow named Charles Rush. Troy had arranged for me to meet the director and discuss the potential for meaningful work in the state. It was rumored that he knew a lot of people.

So, I bundled up and headed to the city’s new civic center. It, at the time, was a proud new addition to the city, designed by the architectural firm of Edward D. Stone, until then perhaps the most famous architect produced by our state. It was an extremely unfunctional facility that hasn’t stood up well, but that’s another story.

Mr. Rush welcomed me into his office graciously. I didn’t own a suit, and a needy shipmate had stolen most of my civilian clothes just before I left the service. I did borrow a tie from my father. I think he had purchased it for funerals back in the 1950s. I’m sure I made a splendid appearance.

No, Mr. Rush explained, there wasn’t much work for a college graduate with no special qualifications in the area. I had pretty much decided that on my own, but thanked him for his insight. His office, he said was fully staffed and he knew of no positions available anywhere.

We talked, I could almost hear the sounds of foghorns from ships heading west through the Golden Gate and taste the salty fog of my beloved San Francisco. I had tried, Mother, so take that and grant me my freedom.

I thanked Mr. Rush for his time and began, mentally, to assess the route I would take to the West. Arkansas had a new governor who seemed willing to continue the progressive programs started by his predecessor. I wished the best for my home state, but California was a big place and opportunities seemed to grow on trees there. I had even been able to find a job in “The City” while I was burdened with a 1A status (Same-same Goodbye my Darling, Hello Vietnam) from my local Draft Board.

Just imagine what a free man could do there, in San Francisco I mean.

I had a hand on the office door when Mr. Rush said, “Wait a minute. Would you be interested in working in Little Rock?”

I thought I was marketable,
 but to whom?