Friday, May 31, 2013

Jan Kellerman Marshall Wants My Love Child.


What time is it?

Seven o’clock in the morning is an hour that does not exist on the clocks in New York City. If you are invited to early breakfast, your host means 10:00 A.M. Nevertheless, seven o’clock is when Jan Kellerman Marshall wanted me to meet her for breakfast at her hotel in Midtown. She had news before she had to fly to L.A.
Don't know when I'll be back

I thought she wanted to congratulate me on my hilarious new book, Shortstack, due at Amazon in October 2013.

Or maybe she wanted to announce our love child.
Timothy's love child

It turned out she wanted scrambled eggs and doesn’t like to eat alone. And she wanted to announce our love child.
I took the 2/3 subway train from Brooklyn and got off at 34th Street/Penn Station. A couple blocks away I found her hotel on 7th Avenue at 31st Street. I went to the restaurant. It was 6:50 A.M., and the restaurant didn’t open until seven. I had ten New York minutes to kill. Minutes I would never get back. I found a seat in the lobby and whipped out my Kindle. Two chapters later, I headed back to the restaurant.
Jan Kellerman Marshall and Timothy Hurley
in Midtown

Jan waited at the door, radiant, desirable, hungry. She looked as I remembered her from her photograph with Steve Allen. Her short black hair swept over her forehead. Her pouty lips were fire engine red—as was her rouge. Her black lashes fluttered. Her earrings dazzled with the sparkle of Tiffany’s & Co. on 5th Avenue. Her V-neck gown was adorned with a red rose shyly shielding her cleavage.  I was captivated. I moved in closer for a hug. Her brown eyes met my blues. We said nothing. No words were needed. Our faces drew near. She parted her lips. “Let’s eat,” she said.
“Okay,” I replied. “And coffee. What time is it?”  The waiter deferentially held a chair for the famous authoress of Dancin’ Schmancin’ with the Scars. She delicately lowered herself into the seat. “I’m so happy to see you again, Timothy.”
“Likewise,” I said. “What time is it?” I peered into my cup. “Have they brought coffee yet?”  Jan placed her hand upon her cheek and ordered scrambled eggs, well done, and a demitasse of espresso. “A bagel,” I said. “No cream cheese.” (I’m carrying an extra pound or two.) “And coffee.”
Available at Amazon 5*

Jan slid a copy of her book across the table to me and smiled coyly. The cover showed her dancin’ and schmancin’ with Steve Allen. I flipped the book open to her inscription. To Timothy, it read. I will name our child Timothy. “Congratulations,” I said. “When do you go back to Los Angeles?”
“I must depart at Noon, my love. May I have a lock of your hair?”
“Of course,” I said. I picked up my butter knife and sliced a hunk of my gray hair. I handed it to her over the salt and peppershakers. Our hands met. Our fingertips lingered. She reached up with her napkin and wiped butter from my hair.

“I must dash to the airport, my sweet. My limo awaits. I will not forget this moment, or your manly face.”
“Nor I yours,” I replied. The limo driver took her arm and she turned to go. I looked at our waiter. “More coffee, please.”
Jan Kellerman Marshall turned back and waggled her gloved fingers. Then she tugged her broad-brimmed hat over one eye.
Jan in a light moment

“Toodles.” She said. Her red dress was sleek over her swaying hips.
“Toodles.” I replied. “Oh, and Jan—?”
“Yes, my love.”
“What if it’s a girl?” She laughed, turned away, and was gone—poof, like the wind.
"You'll miss your plane."

Thank you for reading. See you next time?


Monday, May 27, 2013

Memorial to a Warrior a Memoir

Memorial to a Warrior
a Memoir

Timothy Hurley

“I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.”~Edgar Allan Poe.

I became insane. My intervals of horrible sanity have been shorter than Mr. Poe’s. And for that I am thankful. Horrible sanity demands thinking, contemplation, openness to realities that threaten comfort. Real sanity is frightening—a thing that requires getting used to. Memorial Day 2013 was not a holiday from sanity for me. I am a writer, and a writer works during periods of insanity and intervals of horrible sanity. My interval of dreadful lucidity demanded of me that I contemplate and write a suitable memorial for a warrior.
The warrior was Timothy James Hurley, Jr. (I am TJH III). In 1939, at age seventeen, this fighter got himself thrown out of high school over a fight for the honor of a girlfriend, who he subsequently left to go to war. His father, TJH, Sr., would not sign for the underage combatant to join the cavalry (My father had fantasies of dying during a charge up San Juan or an equivalent hill.) But his father would sign for him to join the Navy, which he did. He was well suited for the life of a warrior.
He was soon on a destroyer running escort pre-Pearl Harbor for American convoys. He protected tankers taking supplies to embattled England. He nearly went overboard during a terrible North Atlantic storm in the winter of 1939-1940. He later acted as if he was sorry he didn’t. After Pearl Harbor, service on destroyers might not have been dangerous enough, and he volunteered for submarine duty. By 1943 he was married to a singer, and by 1944 his first son was born. He left his wife and infant son with his parents and left to do battle with the Imperial Japanese Empire.
His career was a success. He rose rapidly to chief petty officer and turned down a field promotion to lieutenant. His combat position on the submarine was gunner’s mate, but his non-combat position was boat’s secretary. He served on many different boats. Submariners were superstitious that spending too much time on a single boat invited disaster. His boats sank many Japanese ships and killed many Japanese combatants. He wrote the war patrol reports and other paper work required on the boats—including fictionalized leave passes when needed.
Years later he told tales that could have terrorized Edgar Allen Poe. Tales of depth charge attacks that went on for hours, while he sat with his crew mates in their underwear in sweltering, humid conditions, all machinery silenced. Lethal explosives shook the submerged boat and rattled their teeth and courage. And tested their will to live. He thrived on it. His telling of it sounded nostalgic for the shared near death experience. More than once in later years he would tell me that he didn’t expect to live past thirty years, and that he was sometimes regretful he was denied a warrior’s death—ruminations both perplexing and disturbing to his Boomer son.
***
In 1997, I attended a reunion of the Bowfin’s crews at Pearl Harbor. Although not crew, I was surviving kin of a deceased crewmember. The Bowfin, built shortly after the Japanese attack, was nicknamed The Pearl Harbor Avenger. She reaped revenge with pride. Now a part of the Arizona Memorial, the boat is permanently berthed in Pearl Harbor at the Bowfin Boat Museum. At the crew’s reunion, an event closed to the public, I met old men, the survivors of Bowfin’s many war patrols. When we were all taken to the battleship Arizona on a small boat, my father’s fellow crewmembers stood beside Japanese tourists and gazed at the list of names and the oil seeping from the official underwater gravesite. I speculated that some of the old, weeping Japanese men might have been in the crews attempting to kill my father and his boat mates, the American men now aged and standing tearful at the memorial. I imagined that the elderly Japanese men might have been on a tanker that escaped my father’s torpedoes—torpedoes intent on their deaths. I made eye contact with American and Japanese alike. No one spoke. I asked myself why. I understand that our brave boys protected our freedom from a heinous enemy. But why is hatred and war a necessary part of human history? And what compels us to memorialize the resulting violence and death? Horrible sanity required that I pull back the curtain and confront the struggling old man hiding behind the image of the Great and All Powerful Oz.
Life is complex. War contemplated after the fact is complicated. It is not the simple patriotic purpose it seems to be at the moment warriors are engaged in battle. I received no answers at the Arizona or the Bowfin.
There was an evening ceremony at Bowfin Park that honored the warriors, the ones who died before their hair could turn white and the ones who lived to old age with the grayness of war in their minds as well as on their heads. I wondered: which group struggled more to make it through the dark nights?
As dusk made it easier to see the ghosts, I climbed the gangplank of the proud, gray memorial. The submarine was deserted except for a solitary sailor guarding the tangible evidence of the bravery of her crew. I moved along the slatted wooden deck and ducked under the wire railing.  I headed toward the stern with a brown paper bag. “Sir—?” the sailor called. He said I was entering space forbidden to the public for safety reasons. I know now I was also plunging into  horrible sanity, space where photographs of a smiling young sailor in medals evoke more than simple pride. I was going beyond the protective railing into space where memories struggle for explanations.
I turned. My father was the chief petty officer, I explained. I told the guard how my father hid a bottle of rum in his office waste basket under his chair, and how the captain would walk by and rub his chin, and how that was the signal for my father to slide the waste basket out within the captain’s reach. I showed the sentry the bottle of rum in my bag and told him of my plan to pour it on the boat’s stern. The sailor saluted. I returned the salute and proceeded to my task. After I emptied the bottle, I went below with it. I was alone in the boat; but I did not feel alone. I made my way along the narrow passageway to the alcove and desk where my father sat forty-seven years before and wrote reports for war patrols numbers four and five. I didn’t actually hear typing, but I thought I did. The wastebasket was gone, so I set the empty rum bottle on his desk. I didn’t know what to say to the ghosts on the Bowfin in 1997. So I left without a word.
Were I alone on the Bowfin today, Memorial Day 2013, I would tell the spirit of the submarine’s chief petty officer that I am sorry we can’t talk together any longer about life. I would tell him I hope the life of a warrior where he exists now is fulfilling, uncomplicated. I would tell him that the thoughts of the son he left behind are complex, sometimes discomforting. I would describe how I contemplate his bravery and the war he won for my freedom. Horrible sanity, I would tell him, requires courage similar to that which was demanded of the young warrior who endured hours of depth charging.
My father didn’t die the warrior’s death he desired while battling the Japanese enemy. He died after doing battle with three packs of cigarettes a day, four heart attacks and a bypass. He died alone in his bedroom. Not beside his fellow heroes in an exploding submarine. He died in battle with himself, not his enemy. Or maybe with his enemy. Were I alone on the Bowfin today with my father, I would tell him I have spent a lifetime of horrible sanity pondering why. And struggling mightily to write a suitable memorial.
USS Bowfin, Pearl Harbor, Hawaii


The warrior, age 17

Thank you for reading. I hope to see you next Memorial Day.

Memorial to a Warrior a Memoir  © 2013 Timothy Hurley