Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
He had Johann—Sarah had agreed that Johann would be better off for a time; she was so busy
with Dugan.
Endings seemed more frequent.
I split for St. Louis, a gray sprawl of suburbs surrounding a hollow core. They built an arch
in the center to balance the void. It was something to look at. A classified ad described a job
at Laclede Gas Company paying eighty-five hundred dollars a year. I'd never imagined eighty-
five hundred dollars much less seen eighty-five hundred. I knew it wouldn't come in a lump
but would be doled out and largely spent in the process on basics like taxes, rent, groceries,
insurance and new clothes. I applied. I didn't get the job.
Fock! I felt like the guy in
he Deer Hunter
playing Russian roulette.
I phoned the girlfriend who got discouraged with my frequent fucker plan and got the
nod to come on down to Miami. She seemed lukewarm, like she'd hoped for a better catch but
needed rescue at any rate from life with her mother—a dire and aging Republican who would
not shut (the fuck) up on the glories of Dick Nixon and the horrors of the hateful hippies.
I went, hardly expecting a family embrace but surprised at the anti-Semitic reception. The
girlfriend's mother had divorced the father many years prior and shared sparse dialogue since.
Yet they agreed that Jewish and broke would not do for their daughter. The summary indict-
ment: daughter had fallen victim to the worst combination, and for what? She'd been a pom-
pom girl, which is nearly a cheerleader. She could do better. The mother required that the
daughter address her as her Aunt, so men suitors wouldn't know she had a daughter so old, so
men wouldn't think her so old. The father was born Jewish and fairly defined a certain class of
Jew, post WWII, embarrassed by hatred coming his way when, really, he wasn't like that at all.
He'd changed his name to a generic, suburban version unidentifiable as Yidloch, which surely
the Fourth Reich would have nailed him on, had it arisen under the light of a single, dangling
bulb as the electrodes shot sparks from his sweaty nipples . . . Don't get me started.
Meanwhile, the daughter had a job in Miami. I rented a studio in North Miami and two
days later she moved in.
Evenings were best, when the heat slacked off and the geriatrics turned in soon after the
early bird specials. We toured the “alleys” on clunky bicycles, stealing citrus and avocados
hanging in reach. We rode bicycles to Biscayne Bay to snorkel, my second time since '55 to
revisit another reality only faintly recollected. On the way back we passed a crazy man on
the bike path. He looked berserk with urgently wild eyes. A minute later a young woman
staggered out of the bushes. She'd been beaten and raped.
Witnessing a capital crime gave purpose for a while—another beginning on another end-
ing. Detectives called and stopped by to insist on the critical nature of eyewitness testimony
on behalf of a rape victim. We had to be sure of the I.D. and sure to follow through, know-
ing the prosecutor would seek the death penalty. It got so tedious that I turned to a detective
