When two lives collide, p.29
When Two Lives Collide, page 29
Colonel William Simmons, a long-time Klan member, was determined to revive the evil society, and in 1915, at a rally in Stone Mountain, Georgia announced a reformed and invigorated supremacist society. Their wide-ranging doctrines to fight everything perceived as anti-American. Simmons’ new supporters were indoctrinated with his hatred of Catholics, Jews, repeal of prohibition, a total ban on the immigration of all foreigners and the reversal of Darwinism. Many leading academics and entrepreneurs alike supported Charles Darwin’s theories of a scientific justification for 19th Century laissez-faire capitalism. This theory, supported by the industrialist and philanthropist Andrew Carneigie, allowed for a competitive market economy unregulated by government. To Colonel Simmons’ supporters, now to be found in increasing numbers across the United States, freedom of activity providing economic growth was an anathema. A flame of apprehension spread through the black communities with the Klan’s increasing popularity. Fanned by its official recognition of Georgia, a home to many newly freed black slaves. By the mid-twenties, the Klan’s leadership claimed allegiance of more than four million followers through an increasing number of states.
Prosperity over the next twenty years negated interest in the Klan, which all but disappeared. Many numbers were arrested by the F.B.I., a majority of those who earlier had been passionate believers, becoming disillusioned as their own financial circumstances changed. Again, in the fifties, America set about the task of internally self-cleansing its society when Federal propaganda induced fears of ‘reds under the bed’. This catalyst was sufficient to stimulate a re-emergence for the new clandestine Klan membership to ‘fight’ for American justice.
After the route against communism in the fifties, the next thirty odd years were quiet times for the Klan. But the knowledge to non-whites of its simmering evil existence left an uncomfortable feeling to a nation purporting to develop as a multi-racial society.
For all its superficial sophistication, Miami is still in the kindergarten of civilisation. Florida, the Spanish word for ‘flowered’ was purchased from the Spanish in 1819, and cynics consider most has since been repatriated for a burgeoning Hispanic power base. Over fifty percent of the population of South Dade, which makes up Greater Miami, are now of Hispanic origin. Ensuring blacks remain the minority, a down-trodden ethnic community. For all the righteous political claptrap spouted by State and Federal Governments of varying hues, many areas throughout the Southern States remain unequal on many levels for a majority of ethnic minorities—in particular Afro-Americans.
So Harry had himself a nigger boy, kept discretely working in his garden. No doubt trained to swish cooling fans over his master. It was all too repugnant to me. As I followed this draconian master to the pool area, I consoled myself with the fact I could quickly make my polite farewells.
“Hey Billy,” the grand master called out, “why don’t yuh fetch us a pitcher of that fresh lemonade in the ice box. Just sit here Mike. These old chairs have seen several wars, but they’re good and comfortable.”
He swung his leg over a six foot long bench, faded by continual exposure to the blistering heat and casually leant forward, resting his weight on his enormous brown hands.
“Great spot eh, yuh could be anywhere in the Caribbean,” he smiled to himself.
He was absolutely right. A small rectangular pool was surrounded on two sides by the house and a tall boarded fence on the other. Much of the boundary wall, barely visible through a stunning display of tropical plants. Along one side joining the house was a covered area were we sat viewing the perfect splendour of his home.
My thoughts were interrupted by the clinking of glass as his ‘slave’ Billy arrived. Perfectly presented on a circular wooden tray, Billy was delivering a large pitcher of a cloudy fluid and three glasses.
“Billy, this here’s Mike Gilbride. I sure as hell hope he’s going to be staying with us. God damn, you gonna pour that lemonade ’fore it boils out here,” the grand master smiled at Billy. His manner unnervingly friendly.
“Pleasure to meet yuh sir. I sure hopes yuh comes to stay wid us. We ain’t had no real gent here for some time,” Billy offered me his hand, a mouthful of gold teeth smiling back at me.
Billy’s sweating black face beamed with obvious sincerity, passing a cheeky glance at his master. Glasses of fresh lemonade were poured, and Billy turned to leave.
“Sit awhile Billy. That ol’ grass ain’t gonna grow for five minutes,” Harry pointed to a rocking chair alongside the pool.
What trap was he setting his slave, the whole business was baffling.
“It’s OK boss, but I just gotta finish by the wash house ‘for I goes. You want me to take a ride home wid Newton, if you’s a talkin’ to this gentleman?”
Slaves don’t get rides home. There was something very strange in this woodshed.
“You just wait up ’till four Billy, Mike and I’ll bring you home; that OK with you Mike?” he continued.
I nodded my expression of complete astonishment, embarrassed by its obvious transparency.
“Surprised yuh uh. Well Billy and me go way back. He’s my friend and hell, I need a loyal friend Mike Gilbride.”
His watering eyes glistened as he looked away across the pool, distracted by as yet undisclosed pained memories.
“Fifty bucks a week, sound OK to you Mike Gilbride,” Harry smiled, fully aware he had set the bait sufficiently low to catch an Englishman seeking a new home.
“Sounds good to me Harry; looks like you got yourself a new roommate,” I replied shaking his hand firmly as Billy looked on nodding to himself.
A knowing smile broke out on his shining black face, knowing his ‘master’ had just received the answer to his tenancy prayers.
I soon settled into the routine at ‘Chateau Harry’. Within days I came to know the other ‘inmates’. A mixture of characters living in varying degrees of comfort, in what could only be described as outhouses. With every square foot of Chateau Harry rented, he soon accumulated a substantial stockpile of un-taxed dollar bills. Carefully stashed away amongst a plethora of banks and savings and loans that adorned every street corner of the fifty-two States. But sadly, Harry’s vetting process for new tenants left much to be desired.
All too frequently, any passing itinerant who vaguely passed muster, possessing the necessary quantity of ‘green backs’, instantly found a resting place at Chateau Harry. Here, ‘Harry’s first principle of economics’ oft-times failed. All too often, the quality of Harry’s tenants left elementary questions regarding their suitability to enter the hallowed grounds of Chateau Harry. Harry adopted a Rackmanish approach in collecting rent. Those failing to make ‘the gravy’ on rent day, experienced his gentle touch. Suitcases, black and white television sets and the last photograph of Great Aunt Matilda would exit the property, followed unceremoniously by the poverty stricken ex-tenant. There was never any questioning Harry’s motives. As their displaced worldly goods were deposited onto 122nd street, left at the pleasure of packs of marauding flee-ridden hounds.
To the rear of the house, stood what one could only label as an overgrown lawn mower shed. Its tenant, John had rented this outhouse for several years. I would dearly love to confirm his family name. But Harry, myself and the nightclub owner, where he played excellent jazz piano six days a week till dawn, knew him only as John. John was slightly more forthcoming about his past. Or indeed parts he could remember, than recounting his family name. This, usually through a haze of excellent Lebanese dope he smoked constantly. John and I really clicked.
Each Sunday morning, after the day was fully aired, we would cut some slack close by the bug-infested swimming pool. Me struggling with the weeks ironing, John spinning more yarns of his exploits as a Russian interpreter for the ‘Government’. Sundays to both of us were the highlight of our week. John seeing daylight for only one time during the week. Constantly bemused by my inability to leave any garment as though it had passed within yards of my ancient Murphy Richards. For me, a fascination of his well-embroidered stories whilst we both overdosed on liberal portions of our favoured music. Blossom Dearie, Nina Simone and occasionally, when prepared to take musical risks, a healthy dose of early Shirley Bassey.
John claimed to have spent twenty-five years, in his words, in the service of the “Government”. First in the Navy, where he rose to the rank of 1st Lieutenant, then transferring to the FBI as Russian interpreter. Every Sunday I attempted to sift through what could be drug infested bull shit but balanced by an unaffected charming man. I was convinced John had seen many delicate situations exploited by Uncle Sam then hung out to dry with others no longer of use. There never appeared to be a woman in John’s life. Sounds of exaggerated fake orgasms were never heard from his quarters.
As the weeks passed, more characters came and went. Then skipping past Harry’s checking process, early one Saturday morning, a creature from well across the tracks arrived. Rinty was a suicide blond of indeterminate birth, who wore her immense breasts with visible pride for all to see. Adding to her other ‘charms’ on offer, a plethora of glowing red spots that appeared to cover every exposed area of her body.
Rinty appeared to etch out a living from Harry’s converted garage, making regular trips at unearthly hours in her beaten up white Toyota. She apparently started out from somewhere in New Mexico, working her way across country. To survive, screwing for the price of a bed when honest work was unobtainable, which I suspect was most of the time.
Thankfully, our paths passed infrequently. Only when I miss-timed my visit to our communal laundry room, uncomfortably tacked onto the side of her converted garage. Like John, I found it increasingly difficult to remain in her company, for fear the contagious nature of her ailments pass my way. Both John and Harry offered up differing views on the exact nature of her income stream. A PhD was certainly not required, the consensus being she was assisting the oldest profession to prosper in South Dade County.
I had the best of all worlds. Cheap accommodation, my own, albeit small contained quarters. Also the full use of the house and grounds, plus a permanent sitcom with a changing cast of weirdoes. A bourgeoning writer’s deal of the decade. Needless to say, Rinty never qualified for a length of stay award. Her remaining personal effects scattered along 122nd Street; her reward for missing by one day her weekly rent payment.
Another of Harry’s ‘curved balls’ is worthy of comment. Fully confirming his propensity to extract maximum dollar from every inch of floor space. One evening, having just retired to my rooms then selected suitable reading matter, I was startled by a disturbance from my adjoining room. Imagining, I was about to become yet another statistic of the increasing number of ‘aggravated home invasions’, I set about the defence of my realm. Selecting my shining black Churchill handmade shoe, I slipped quietly to the door. Then with adrenaline pumping, crashed through the connecting door, into my adjoining storage room. There, in frilly white French knickers, bare chested but wearing an alluring smile, stood a young leggy brunette. Not beautiful, but infinitely more acceptable that a hairy assed Latino I had expected to confront.
Without the slightest hint of explanation, Harry had sublet my adjoining storeroom. Gerta, a thirty something year old KLM stewardess had arranged with Harry to store her personal belongings secreted from an array of Floridian lovers. Nothing was harmed; there appeared no reason to cause this unsuspecting lady any further hardship. So with English chivalry, I accommodated her need for regular visits to our now jointly rented storeroom. We shared the facility, much to Harry’s financial satisfaction and amusement for several months. In return, I was content to become another statistic on her exploration of life’s wondrous paradoxes.
Life went on much the same at Chateau Harry. John left home at around nine most evenings for his club, bedecked in a fading tuxedo and greying dress shirt. There he’d play jazz till dawn, returning as we were arranging breakfast.
Shortly after Rinty’s departure, two Aussie girls soon filled the converted garage on the Antipodean’s dream ticket. Viewing twenty countries for the price of Qantus round the world special. Unlike Rinty, whose activities were clandestine, if not obvious to the trained eye, Beth and Jenny had no pretensions or inhibitions. They were unashamedly blatant of how to pay for their year away from hedonistic Aussie sheep shaggers. I became an innocent, yet grateful observer of the soap opera acted out every day at Chateau Harry. I could only conclude that it was the air circulating in our part of Southern Florida which exposed the real characters of all our female ‘guests’.
Our new Aussie garage visitors, both openly professed their ability to work their way across the States. Unashamedly predicated on their ability to utilise the ‘golden egg’ God had endowed them so splendidly with. I am confident that after the initial rental payment, Harry was compensated in other more gratifying ways. Negating any necessity for him to soil his hands on old soiled dollar bills. During their stay, Harry’s bedroom door was frequently closed. His TV turned way up and the air conditioning unit, which poked its rusting body through the sidewall, glowing from overuse.
I was not seen as a worthwhile sexual target, both girls considering me one of the ‘Sheilas’. I hasten to add, this was an honorary drinking title they bestowed on me after a session celebrating Australia Day. Each Sunday, both girls listened with fascinated amusement at the American blues music John and I indulged in. One by one, they would arrive around midday taking station by the pool. For several hours, they would share our apocryphal stories, tolerating with cringing expressions our taste in off-beat female singers.
Bawdy Aussie talk was of great surprise and indeed shock to John. John carried more than a hint of Middle America Bible belt guilt from his reactions to some of their more juicy stories. One Sunday morning, the topic of conversation was well into international sexual conquests. To move the subject forward, I asked Jenny whether she got enough sex here in the heart land of the redneck.
Her reply was straight from the outback. “Sure Mike, I get so much on offer, I have to climb the trees to get away from it.” Obviously a woman never knowingly undersold!
The Australian subcontinent has without doubt developed a language almost indecipherable to other English speaking nations. Many blame the now fashionable colloquialisms based on Cockney and Irish influences. I blame inbreeding, too much sun and pickled liver. Much brought about by a need to fight off dehydration with vast quantities of weak lager beer. Whatever the cause, the outcome is all too frequently hilarious. An experience for those fortunate enough to spend time in the company of this beer swilling, devil may care race of ex-European convicts. What will be noted from this insight into the fineries of the Australian literary mind that a one-dimensional interest in booze and bodily functions shines through.
As much as he tried, Harry never quite understood the raw Aussie humour. An exaggerated working class accent, delivered for his benefit, totally lost on this old Southern boy. However, he enjoyed the vibrant atmosphere they injected into our commune. Like John, we were all left with an empty feeling when one rainy Sunday morning they appeared by the pool, packed ready to travel.
“Gotta move on sport,” Beth exaggerated with her best Melbourne waitress accent. “Time to looky at some oil men Harry, off to Texas dangling the digit.”
I translated for Harry’s benefit that the girls hoped to achieve their ultimate destination with the assistance of a helpful passing motorist or two: flagged down by the use of a sun-burnt thumb and just a hint of her ‘golden egg’.
I had now shared Harry’s home for some six months, enjoying a never-ending theatre performed within the compound. From my spell at Chateau Harry, I knew emotion was a condition infrequently shown on his wizened old face. Beth and Jenny had broken the myth.
“This is for you Harry,” Jenny moved towards the old boy, clattering into his favourite cane hanging chair. “You’ve been a great guy, we won’t forget you.”
Already laden with her worldly goods, Jenny reached into her backpack, pulling out a yellow woollen Koala. Like well-behaved nieces, they solemnly kissed us all on our respective cheeks and were gone. This time no baggage was dispatched into 122nd Street. No chase down the street after outstanding rent; the girls were just cleanly and simply gone to the next experience. Without doubt, a month all of us at Chateau Harry would remember. I had now seen tears for the second time.
For the next few weeks life seemed somewhat mundane, as I waited with baited breath for the next aberration to appear in the garage room. If the three previous incumbents had been interesting, what transpired next was to change my attitude towards females whilst opening my eyes to this extraordinary frontier land.
Of the many differences between our two great countries, surely the magnitude of the American landmass is the major factor. Something to be fully experienced before attempting to understand the many social and cultural differences that exist. I had already been fortunate to cross America by land as well as air, partly understanding the topographical, political and social changes. A country where young girls are actively encouraged to leave home in their early teens for arranged marriages, thus staving off starvation for their family. Common in Virginia, not amongst the black population, but a throwback within desperately poor white redneck groups over several generations.
I had long thought the average American was censored by their knowledge of world affairs. But this early lesson and many subsequent events have convinced me that one of my favourite countries is still forcibly contained to ensure the frontier spirit is maintained. Harry and I talked endlessly on the subject regarding the limitations of American education and the insularity of a vast majority of its wonderful people.
