Memoirs of a Worldly Guy
I had been back home about six months when I had a phone call from Dick who was back home in the San Marino district of Los Angeles. In 1953 the L.A 'smog' was as famous as the old London 'peasoupers' had been in their day. Residents were complaining of sore eyes from the acid nature of the smog and working girls had nylon stockings develop mysterious holes without warning. Dick was keen to travel to Mexico City in his family station wagon and finally talked me into joining him (two minutes). My mother decided it was a prime time for her to accompany me to California.
'It'll give me a chance to see 'Lili' and Minnie Smith,' she said. Lili was the son of the former Mexican consul and had come up to Canada in 1940 to join the Canadian Air Force. Minnie was an old buddy from her days as a secretary for 'the Massey-Harris' in Saskatchewan.
We took a Greyhound bus from Calgary. I was obviously still programmed for 'cheap' from my months in Europe but we were in no hurry and we enjoyed the trip and our time together. I remember we stayed at a Salt Lake City hotel one night but avoided the Temple and conversation with the natives for fear we might be converted. Only kidding! Lili picked us up at the downtown Greyhound depot when we arrived in L.A. and took us to his apartment on Crenshaw Boulevard. Dick picked me up the next day in the ancient wooden family station wagon and Mom stayed on with Lili for a few days before going up to San Francisco to see Minnie.
When I became aware of the condition of Dick's father I decided it was time to talk to Dick about a review of our travel plans. His father was on two injections a day of either morphine or heroin to control the pain of his terminal cancer condition.
'Please don't take this the wrong way, pal, but I don't think it would be timely for you to set out on an extended trip to Mexico.' We had studied a map previously and were astounded when we found out how far it was from L.A. to Mexico City. My comments eventually prevailed and Dick decided it would be better if he remained near his father in his last days. I'm sure he'll never regret that decision because his father died about three weeks later with all of his family around him.
With the Mexico caper cancelled it left me at loose ends. I was not in the mood to return home so I finally settled on a short excursion to Hawaii to trade lies with two of my University buddies who were interning at Hawaiian hospitals. A few days later I was boarding a Pan Am Clipper from the L.A. airport en route to Honolulu. I bussed into the centre of Honolulu from the airport and checked into a hotel the first night I was in town.
For the newcomer to Hawaii alighting from a pressurized airliner and soon wreathed in holiday smiles and vanda orchid leis, there is a variety of exotic sensations lying in wait for him. For instance, to choose at random, there is the not inconsiderable matter of the climate. It becomes obvious from the moment he undergoes (in company with a few score other budget-conscious individuals who claim they always travel tourist class because you meet more people that way) a collective depressurization and is expelled throught the airtight doorway into a sun-splashed atmosphere that lingers monotonously for twelve months of the year at a temperature in the mid-seventies.
The next day I went out to Waikiki and hunted for a room more suited to my elegant life style. A block from the beach on Kealohilani Avenue I found exactly what I was looking for. A little old Korean woman owned a property fronted by a couple of relatively modern bungalows. A paved driveway between the bungalows led to the back of the lot where there was a row of seven connected rooms each with a bed. They had electric lights but that was their most modern touch; there were no hand wash basins, toilets, or showers. There was one room available.
"I'll take it,' I said. The rent was twelve dollars a week. For the 'amenities' it was necessary to go to the washroom at the 'beach' end of the rooms. Each time I showered I would have a visit from 'Fred', the resident cockroach. The shower cubicles were home-made and there were two by four wooden planks along the tops of the walls. Fred would emerge from a hole in the wall above one of the planks and lie along the top of it and examine me. I was never sure whether he was simply enjoying a bit of company or measuring me for a meal. I assume the former was the case since he never seemed to appear to be in the 'attack' mode. Each time I reached up for the shower soap Fred would back up a couple of steps, 'just in case'.
I had promised to send home to a friend some tapes about sports in Hawaii so I dropped in to the studios of station KGU in Honolulu. When I had explained my requirements to the receptionist she suggested I talk to Mr. Good. I sat down and waited until a stocky, dark-haired individual with a crew-cut and pencil mustache bounced into the reception ofice.
'Gene Good, Sports Department!' he announced, shaking my hand firmly. I identified myself and told him what I required.
'That's no problem,' he said, 'we'll come down Sunday morning and run it off ourselves. Let me know when you're ready and we'll give 'er 'boomers'' I thanked him for his kindness.
'No problem, boy, no problem! Now what else can I do for you? What are your plans for this evening?' I told him I had no plans.
'Then you'd better come down to the football game. Come to the stadium about 8:00 o'clock. Here's my card!' He wrote some instructions on the back of the card. 'Just give that to the usher and they'll let you right up to the broadcasting booth.'
Any preconceived notions I had of high school football in Hawaii were soon put to rest when I arrived at the 'old' stadium on Friday night. It was bowl-shaped of course and it was jam-packed with around fifteen thousand football-crazy high school students. The game was already under way and I was amazed at the size of the huge Punahou High linemen, outfitted like the rest of their team in professional-class uniforms. There were attractive cheerleaders dressed in matching uniforms showing lots of brown leg as they jumped and flipped gymnastically on the track. High school football in Hawaii was 'big time'.
Gene's name was magical and I proceeded unimpeded up to the broadcasting booth where Gene greeted me like an old friend. I was introduced to 'Corky' Donahue, a Honolulu detective who acted as 'colour man'; Lew Teeter, a young man from Little Rock, Arkansas who was doing his two year stint in the American Navy and acting as 'sound engineer' on the Friday night broadcasts, and a Portuguese individual whose function I never quite understood. Lew and I became good friends. We had Thanksgiving dinner at Gene's house that year (they called it 'Turkey Day') and I will always remember the many kindnesses of Gene and his lovely wife.
I have certain contentions which I favour above others. One of these is in respect of functionalism while travelling. Call it a 'gimmick' if you like. However, I feel the best way to enjoy a foreign landscape is to become a part of it. Thus camouflaged, the alien is better able to observe the natives at play. With this theory in mind, I left my economical lodgings near Waikiki in search of gainful employment; something not too arduous, of course. I eventually found my way to the office of a gentleman located at one of the large military establishments near Honolulu.
'What are your qualifications?' he enquired, somewhat unenthusiastically.
'I have a B.Sc. in Chemical Engineering,' I replied. He suddenly became alert. I had the absurd notion that he might be working on a commission basis.
'What would you think about going to Eniwetok?' he asked.
'Eniwetok? You mean A-bombs, Bikini, and like that? Good heavens, what a thought!'
He mentioned a salary figure that set my lips to quivering ever so slightly.
'I'd have to have time to think a deal like that over,' I said.
'Take your time,' he said, 'when can you let me know?'
'I've thought it over,' I said. 'When do I leave?'
'Just fill out this application and be in my office tomorrow morning at ten.'
I departed gleefully with the fascinating prospect of a few interesting months in company with the atomic fission fellows in the Marshall Islands.
Promptly at ten the following morning I reported to my factor's office, my neatly typed questionnaire in hand. I was ushered in immediately. We shook hands and sat down, beaming convivially at each other.
He took the form and began perusing it; the smile lasted quite well through the first two lines. Nothing about my name, address and sex seemed to disturb him but suddenly he stiffened; the smile vanished. I tried to maintain my air of bonhomie. Surely nothing in the application form......? Perhaps a sudden attack of gallstones on his part, for now he appeared quite gray.
'Something wrong, sir?'
'Why didn't you tell me?' he asked in a hurt tone.
'Tell you what?'
'You're a Canadian!' he said incredulously. I suddenly had an insight into the feelings a patient must have when his mysterious spots have been diagnosed as leprosy.
'So, what's wrong with that?' I enquired testily. 'I know some very nice Canadians! Why, some of my best friends...'
'Now, now, no offense intended,' he explained hastily. 'It's just that...'
'Just that what?' I cried.
'Well, you see, non-American personnel are not permitted in the test areas. Just a matter of security, you see!'
'But I can get you references that...'
'Sorry!' he interrupted, smiling in a kindly way.
In spite of my rebuff in the Marshall Islands incident, I am pleased to say honestly that I bear no rancour. I achieved this recovery partially by embarking immediately on a rigorous course of psychotherapy. I spent each day for the following week recuperating behind dark glasses at Waikiki Beach. To this day the word 'Bikini' evokes only the most pleasant associations in my mind.
To sum up, I didn't get the job! Nursing my bruised but unbowed nationalistic pride I decided on a short career as a 'Good Humour' man. In answer to an advertisement that appeared in the Honolulu Advertiser I landed a solid position as an ice cream salesman. My obvious shortcomings as a security risk seemed to affect my frozen goodies transactions with the little Oriental tots in the Manoa Valley not a whit.
'You're in business for yourself,' Grabber, the owner of the distributing company told me. 'I rent you the truck each day, and you pay for your own frozen goods, your gas and your dry ice. That's about all there is to it. Pick up your truck in the morning.'
The 'trucks' were actually surplus 'jeeps' fitted with a small insulated box in the back and painted white with the name 'Rico' painted on each side in large red letters.
After a few days I became friendly with a Portuguese boy who worked the same routine. Each morning at seven he picked me up in his wreck of a war surplus car and we drove together to the yard where the little ice cream trucks were stored. When the gates were unlocked we jumped into our assigned trucks and raced along the waterfront to the dry ice plant. There we each bought a large chunk of dry ice weighing fifty or sixty pounds. Then back in the trucks and away to the ice cream storage plant for the day's supply of goodies. Some boys were in districts where Dixie cups were king. Some found Rico bars were strong, while others favoured Drumstix. I was primarily a Fudgicle man myself.
Then we waited for our turn at the bandsaw to slice our ice and wrap it in newspapers. Here again, two schools of thought were extant. Some were of the opinion that many thin slices placed around the periphery was 'de rigueur'. It was my opinion that on a hot day with slow sales, larger, thicker blocks gave maximum protection. Being a good humour man was not without its technical side.
Thus equipped, I sped swiftly to the Manoa Valley and my hungering clientele. They ranged in age from three to six years. The latter, more worldly and somewhat more affluent, were the solid core of my operation. They had a 'popsicle' on their back, and appeared daily for their fix'.
As I drove slowly between the rows of wartime houses the little people came tumbling from the yards and houses, faces shining, hands clenching the precious dimes that unlocked the door to happiness. Stopping the jeep, I went back and restored order.
Then, starting with the oldest, took orders and reached into the chilly depths for their choices. At the end of the line stood my favourite customers. These dolls, standing two feet two inches high in their muumuus, were the cause of my financial ruin.
'I' c'eam, man!' they would chirp, looking at me trustingly with their enormous brown eyes
'Where's your dime, sweetheart?' The grubby little hand would open slowly to reveal an equally grubby penny.
'That's not enough, honey, you've got to have a dime!'
Silence.
'I'm sorry, dear, you'll have to go and ask your mommy for a dime. I'll wait here until you come back!'
'I' c'eam, man,' and the eyes would start to fill with tears.
'Now cut that out! Okay, here's a Dixie cup, but remember, next time, no dime, no ice cream!' What sort of a business did they think I was running, anyway?
After some time, I found that by working ten hours a day I could break even. Since I was subsisting on sashimi rice, fish cakes and Drumstix, this was not a serious financial problem, but as the schoolboy was alleged to have said, 'It's not the school I hate, it's the primcipal of the thing!'
One day about four o'clock, just when I was expecting the evening custom to become brisk, the gear shift jammed in second gear, and I was unable to reach most of the houses in the steep streets running along the side of Manoa Road. It was impossible to set the gears in reverse, so manoeuvring the jeep was extremely difficult. Disgruntled, I returned to the yard where I found Grabber and explained my problem to him.
He seemed properly sympathetic and when we sat facing each other across his desk in the office later, he made an offer to compensate me for the breakdown in the equipment. 'Guess I'd better knock a couple of bucks off the rent today,' he said, looking at the bill on the pad before him. It was customary for the salesmen to pay cash for the ice cream load at the end of each day's work. He reached for an eraser.
'A couple of bucks!' I exclaimed, 'why should I pay anything?'
'You used the equipment , didn't you?'
'Sure, I used it, but just as I was about to make some profit the damned thing went on the hummer!'
'It worked half the day, didn't it?' Grabber persisted. 'So, I'm charging you half the rent; what are you complaining about?'
'I'm complaining about the fact that you're charging me at all for a piece of equipment that won't run well enough to let me make any money; you make your profit but I might as well have stood in bed.'
'What do you mean, "I make my profit,"'
'Come, come, now, let's not be naive. You sell us our ice cream, right?'
'That's right!'
'Well, it doesn't take an accountant to figure out that you sell it to us for more than you pay for it. Right? You make money on everything we sell. I have to sell enough ice cream to pay off your four dollars rent for the truck not to mention the gas and dry ice besides; about seven bucks a day in overhead, which at your rates means I have to peddle approximately fifteen bucks worth of ice cream before I make a cent. Even then you get more than half of everything I sell after that. Big deal!'
'You're wrong about the rent,' Grabber protested. 'Only about half of that is for the truck. The rest is for insurance, storage of your unsold ice cream overnight and so on.'
And so we argued on and on; I began to get somewhat bored by it all. Finally Grabber said 'What are you trying to tell me, that you want the use of the equipment for nothing? Is that it?'
'That would be appropriate! After all, the equipment was useless!'
'Well, if that's the way you want it, all right, my friend. I'm not going to argue about a little matter of two dollars, you can be sure of that!'
'I'm sure you're not! We've just been having a friendly little chat these past twenty minutes, haven't we?' I said jovially.
Grabber ignored the remark and busied himself making the necessary adjustment in the bill. Then he shoved it across the desk and waited while I counted out my money.
'All right, my friend,' he said, shoving the money into a canvas bag in the top drawer of his desk. 'We'll take your order for tomorrow.' I silently wished he'd quit calling me his 'friend'.
'Well, I guess I'm not making any money this way,' I said casually. 'Guess I'll just skip it.'
'All right, my friend!' He didn't raise his eyes but went on ruling a small sheet of notepaper.
The next day I sold out my remaining stock by about four o'clock in the afternoon and then returned the truck for the last time.
My 'close friend' Grabber was not around. I was deprived of the chance for a sentimental farewell.
There were two cottages at the front of the Korean lady's property, one of which was occupied by a couple of young American girls. One of them (Lillian) had a secretarial job, the other (Elaine) had been sent to Hawaii as a Methodist missionary who referred to herself as an 'H-3'. This was apparently Methodist jargon; missionaries were customarily deployed for a period of three years ('H-3's) to Hawaii, missionaries to Japan ('J-3's) and so on. I became acquainted with them, it seems, when I requested the use of a cold place in their refrigerator (was it to keep beer at a drinkable temperature?)
At the time I was full of Locke, Berkeley and Hume, notwithstanding Roger Barr's admonition in Spain to forget it. I could even drone on about Spenser and 'a priori' circumstance when necessary. Elaine, therefore, seemed to be the logical target for an unceasing cynical commentary from me about her mission. I had begun my fatuities more as a diversion, a silly hobby if you like, rather than serious demagoguery. Little did I know that I might fan a quiet ember of skepticism into something quite different from what her superiors were assuming.
We rarely saw the Korean lady who owned the property but her son 'Yoonch' communicated on a regular basis with the tenants. He rigged up a barbecue grill in the yard behind the bungalows one day and proceeded to show us how to barbecue octopi. A clear blue smoke curled up from the grill as the 'calamari' cooked. The result was delicious and we stood around for some time enjoying the proceeds.
'Best you should wash your hands before you do anything else after handling those cooked bits,' he said. A comment like that naturally made the participants immediately raise their hands to their noses. He was right! I hesitate to say how they smelled. I couldn't resist telling him about my friend who had a dog with no nose.
'No nose?' Yoonch said, 'How does he smell?'
'Awful!' I replied. Controlled laughter. Later on I mentioned to Yoonch that I planned to rent a surfboard some day and try my luck.
'No need to go to that expense,' Yoonch said. 'I've got a board stored between the cottages and the fence; you're welcome to use it whenever you like'. Elaine volunteered to help me carry the board the two blocks to the hotel adjoining the beach.
Aficionados will question why I needed a girl, albeit a healthy one, to help me carry the board. Well, it was a 1930's relic; built of heavy plywood it was about nine feet in overall length, hollow, and the sides were roughly four inches in depth. It weighed somewhere between eighty and one hundred pounds!
Elaine and I paddled around in tandem for a while but it wasn't until the following day that I made a serious attempt to ride some of the 'astonishing?' and 'fearsome?' two-foot waves that built up to 'crash?' against the shore at Waikiki. Time after time I would paddle furiously as a wave approached, 'catch' it and start to ride the crest, not buoyantly aloft with the other surfers, but heading down into the trough in which my board would ultimately bury itself. It's known as 'pearl diving' in the trade!
The following day I got an early start. Easing the monster from its berth nearly proved disastrous. I found it necessary to tilt it slowly over till I could get my shoulder at the centre of gravity and balance the craft aloft for transportation to the waters. One miscalculation and I visualized myself being miserably crushed, bug-like, beneath its insensate bulk. I made it to the water just as the old gams began to buckle and accomplished the launching without further incident. Actually, I collapsed.
I lay prone on the board and began paddling toward a group of surfers about a quarter of a mile from shore. Halfway to my goal my arms began to feel extremely heavy. Another hundred yards and fire consumed my shoulder muscles. At last I reached the group. By watching them closely I could tell when they judged a wave to be large enough to merit an effort. There was sudden action as the riders threw themselves flat on their boards and paddled furiously toward shore. As the wave surged up behind and our speed increased my companions made one last thrust with their arms and jumped to their feet, balancing lightly on their toes as their boards gained speed and they shot forward on the crest of the wave. Meanwhile, back at the floating lumberyard, I continued to flail at the water till the back of the wave passed by and my craft lay wallowing listlessly behind like a ruptured whale.
I recall that this futility continued for several days until once, more by accident than design, I found myself keeping pace with my companions. Instead of rushing past me as usual, the wave seemed to have disappeared. I peered ahead and found myself gazing down into a watery chasm eight to ten feet deep.
'Good Heavens!' I cried, 'I've caught one!'
I eased myself up to my knees in preparation for the final graceful leap to my feet. I waved confidently to a surfer on one side in a spirit of camaraderie known only to those who 'belong'. At this point the nose of the board started boring with maniac single- mindedness into the water ahead. I was seized with panic but the situation was beyond control. The peak of the wave gathered up the tail of the board and forced the entire complement of no officers and one man down into the deep green churning depths; all was foam and confusion and swirling coral sand.
As I broke the surface I looked for the board; it was not to be seen. Then, a few feet away, it burst through the surface like a broaching sperm whale, squirted from the depths by its natural buoyancy to shoot high in the air, its immense bulk clearing the surface by at least four feet. As it crashed back to the water, the metal tow ring at the bow missed my skull by inches. I floated in the water spitting out seaweed and counting my blessings at my narrow escape from a compound fracture of the skull.
In the ensuing weeks I adopted a new technique based primarily on my desire to survive. As the water in my leaky craft surged forward and the 'pearl dive' began, I would abandon ship and swim as swiftly as possible toward the bottom of the lagoon. The deeper the better! When I was sure that all was quiet above I would float cautiously back to the surface and resume my struggle with my private floating Frankenstein's monsters.
I never became a great surfboard rider I willingly grant but there are few surfers in the area who would argue the proposition that my instincts of self-preservation were developed to a degree that has not before nor since been surpassed.
There was a guy with a colourful past called Kim living in a yacht at the Ala Moana Yacht Club. Kim was having what we could euphemistically refer to as a domestic 'contretemps'. So far as I could gather, he and his wife had taken turns travelling back and forth from Tahiti (sans spouse) with their children in tow. This was the outcome of their disagreement and the Honolulu newspapers had occasionally dedicated their front page headlines to the romantic saga. Kim was living on board 'Skyline', a 35 foot double-ended sloop out of Auckland, New Zealand, lovingly built from stem to stern by Deny Ryan. Kim had taken employment with a contractor digging a tunnel through one of the Hawaiian mountains and returned to the boat each night covered in mud.
Kim was a surly sort of bugger, presumably for good reason, and was dating Elaine's bungalow mate Lillian on occasion. It was on one of these occasions that I reached what I think of as my pinnacle of cheapness. He suggested one evening that we go out to dinner and I agreed to go along. I can't remember where we ate but when we finished the waiter laid the check next to my plate. Goodness knows why he assumed that I was the 'patrone' but I assume that Kim looked even more grungy than I.
I promptly figured out exactly how much each participant should pay. When Kim became aware of what I was doing he scornfully grabbed the check and paid it. Based on my European experience I figured that what I had planned to do was absolutely proper. Regrettably, Kim retained a more 'Emily Post-like' attitude. I later learned that he had courted Lillian intensively but that she had lost interest when he told her that once they were married he expected her to adopt his children.
Apparently Kim finally found a woman interested in his proposition and as far as my informant knew he and his inamorata were married, they built a boat and set out with his children on a voyage around the world. Nothing has been heard from them for a long time since. It is assumed that nothing ever will!
— The End —