Fragments from the Silent Generation

By David Seed

World War II ended with a big bang that made America King of the World, and the economy boomed. Those involved in civil defense and who profit by fear promoted the idea that Communism was the threat now, and in a scant five years, we were at war again, but the public didn’t like the idea, and the war was sold as a United Nations police action. The people were apathetic about the crisis and busy buying new cars and brand new houses in the suburbs. Times were good, but not for the soldiers fighting in Korea.
We didn’t win that war. China got into it, and we had to settle for a treaty that didn’t settle anything. That bad taste in the mouth has lasted to the present day.
Fragments from the Silent Generation is a novel taking place in 1959-1960, the setting is Berkeley and Oakland, California, and the plot involves two main characters who served in Korea. Their paths converge and cross only twice, but they both want more than the working class lives their fathers led.
Lucas is 27, he married his high school sweetheart and went off to war. He has wife and daughter and dreams of being an artist, but his wife is very unhappy. She wants a normal working class husband, a nice car, and a house in the suburbs.
Charlie is 25, lived with his parents, but he moved out at their request. He wants to write poetry, and ends up driving a cab.
The Beats were the counter culture voice of dissent at the time. They were a small group, but a lot of young people like Lucas and Charlie could identify. The Beats were the precursor to the Beatniks and Hippies of the 60’s, just as the dissatisfaction and anger over the Korean War was a precursor to the riots and protests that helped end the Vietnam War.
Lucas and Charlie lived in the quietness of their time, and although, their lives were ordinary, they followed their callings and experienced their humanity to the fullest and without regret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Western Grebe Publishing
• Release date: Jan 12, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311448019

David Seed

###About the author:David Seed was born August 15, 1931 in Minot, North Dakota. In his eleventh year the family moved to Dunsmuir, California where he graduated high school, believing himself to be a writer. In the fall of 1949 he started at the University of California at Berkeley and did his best to learn what he could of life. He managed to graduate in the spring of 1956 and continued to follow his calling, experiencing a chaotic life as both participant and observer. He is now an old man writing books in Oregon.

Book preview

FRAGMENTS

from the Silent Generation

by David Seed

Smashwords Edition

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Published on Smashwords by

Western Grebe Publishing

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Copyright 1979 and 2014 David Seed

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Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for buying this ebook. It is licensed for your personal enjoyment and may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you want to share this book, please purchase another copy to share. If you’re reading this book and didn’t buy it, please buy a copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

About the Cover

The Laminated Man

He wasn’t solid oak

all burnished to a shine.

He wasn’t made of fir

or cherry wood or pine.

He wasn’t any species

one’s able to define.

He was of bits and pieces

and not of God’s design,

nor was he Nature’s plan.

Only we can make

a laminated man.

--- David Seed

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

About the author

Chapter One

dear lucas

man like being an artist is like cracking one's head open and letting the contents spill out on the sidewalk where the whole world can come along and get curious like see what there is to see man like maybe even poke it with a stick.

man like i cry tears for berkeley town til they sop into my pillow man this big apple is all thin rags like the great ice age of the human spirit so artist split your frames for kindling.

man like are these thin purple lips the same lips that once grew fat on berkeley's juicy mouth man are these raw red hands the same hands that once fondled warmly up under her soft mounded sweat shirt man is this cold shriveled acorn the same thick stalk that once throbbed proudly between her squirming thighs man like i know now how hard it is to leave a place like loving berkeley town where once my soul was warm.

man like i don't know what possessed me to cornball it across all the amber-waving in-between man with my eyes wide open like thinking i had to gig it at some high class art school to polish my strokes.

oh man did your wife smile at me when i left like that was the first time i ever saw her smile man maybe she thinks she can eradicate the artist out of your hide now that i am off in somebody else's limbo tho i have news lucas you are an artist man you will burn with it no matter how hard your wife tries to stamp it out of you.

man like i know how i smolder all hazy on the inside eye straining to see the warm as i founder in cultural faggotry man like these people wouldn't know life if it slopped on them man they would just brush it off and send their clothes to the cleaners.

man like i watch the empty-headed souls searching for art amongst the bare bones of somebody's flesh-filled yesterdays.

man like i know art is now man it burns up all your todays like when you grab the flame you must run with it or you will suffocate man like i look around me at all the spindle-thin pretenders with dead eyes who would have gratefully died of consumption a hundred years ago.

oh man like i watch the prissy tight-butted miss americas go crinkle-crinkle thru my brain like they all wear tin panties man sure sometimes i get a little out of step when there ain't no cadence.

like i laughed out loud in class the other day when this skinny-breasted little flip with the sound of buttered cornbread in her mouth told me i didn't know my place man for something to say i told her of the time i dove face first into a ditch of human excrement just to keep my head from being blown off by a mortar shell like i said she should have been in there with me and we would have both known our place.

like maybe i shouldn't have brought it up like it was the worse for me cause i got so drunk that night i took a bottle to bed with me man i puked in my sack and slept on it til the cold stench brought that ditch back to me like my dreams were filled with the faces of our good buddies who got their guts splattered out over those steaming dung heaps man.

lord lucas how long must we go on remembering man?

dabbler

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Lucas finished cleaning the rollers of the multilith. He stopped the press and took off the last cleanup mat. Then he flipped the switch back on. He reached for the oil can and wondered why he never listened to the noise of the thing until he was getting ready to oil it.

He put a few drops of oil in each oil hole and on each roller axle. He thought he could hear the press smoothing itself out and running quietly, but he couldn't tell how much of that was his imagination.

He turned off the machine. He put everything in its place and went to clean the ink off his hands. Then he grabbed his jacket and said good night to Mrs. Woods as he went out through the front office.

Pale sunlight was fading across the building tops. Lucas saw the signs of impending dusk and felt a weariness seep into him. All day he had tried not to dwell on the letter Dabbler had sent him. All day he had concentrated on spinning sheets of paper through a multilith. Now he was alone and free to talk to himself, but he was afraid to listen to the voice inside him.

A faint breeze touched the back of his neck and he shivered. He knew the night would be full of fog and mist.

He walked up to Shattuck Avenue and caught the bus for home. He got seated and looked out at the street. He saw dusk gathering and saw a ghostly image of himself trapped in the window glass. His mood grew pensive. He stared back at himself and listened to the voice.

You are like all men, it said. You stumble through life. You pick up bits and pieces and arrange these into a pattern which you hold up before your eyes and say that this is how life is. You create what you see and in your own way make what you can of it. All men are artists and their patterns are like the snowflakes.

Lucas didn't want to go home. He felt at loose ends, but he knew he should stay on the bus. Janice would be getting off work. She would drive to the sitters and pick up Josie and then go home to fix supper. Janice would get angry if he didn't show up for supper, and she could stay angry a long time.

Even as he thought about it, Lucas could see Janice pressing her thin lips tightly together and setting her expression as if in stone. Then he remembered how she had smiled at Dabbler as he had left for New York. She thought it was fine for Dabbler to pursue the life of an artist, since he didn't have a family to worry about. The bus turned and headed down University Avenue.

Lucas felt lonely. He had a wife and a three-year-old daughter, he had a job, he had responsibilities, but he felt empty inside. He longed for a friendship. He wanted to share his dreams. He wanted to get drunk with someone and stay up all night talking about art. He missed his good buddy Dabbler and he missed other good buddies who never made it back.

He felt a chill like a cold hand on his shoulder, and the voice inside his head went on about the fog.

The ocean rises, it said. The beaches rumble, the cold fog seeps in upon the land, and the citadels of man are haunted by the vague remembrance of creation. The buildings stand muted, dewy-windowed and slippery-walled, reverent in the first touch of ocean mists that are as olden as the ages.

He noticed the flickering neon sign on Kelly's Bar and Grill. He reached up and pulled the cord. He got off the bus and saw he was still holding his transfer. He crumpled it, dropped it in the street, and went into the bar.

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Chapter Two

Lucas drank to oblivion. He drank to the sea of fog that rolled in over the city. He drank to the heavy leaded haze that waited for him just outside the door of the bar. He drank to the void within him, because being alive was an empty twist of fate. He drank to friends who were no more. There was nothing to match the oblivion of death. Its sudden emptiness remained. He drank to that oblivion.

Lucas drank Scotch, and Scotch seemed to him a marvelous thing to drink. A warmness flushed over him, and rigid thoughts were shaken loose from his mind. He drank because raw life must certainly be a good thing, because Scotch was a wondrous thing, and because he was incongruent.

He drank away doubts and biting thoughts. He drank to loneliness and drank away a state of mind, and then he started to drink away the room and everything that was there before him, but he could not drink away the voice inside his head.

On an ocean of fog the invading night rolls in upon the cities of San Francisco Bay. Brilliant, piercing lights are doomed to tiny, glowing spheres, becoming weird, little orbs, misty-eyed and tearful, their bright intentions diffusing into sudden, dullish gray. Whole cities are but soft diffusions of glowing mist and from a distance seem mere phosphorescent blobs in the black ocean of fog.

He thought the cold, thick fog had seeped in under the door and had slowly filled the barroom. He drank to oblivion, and its harbinger heralded its coming. A thick gauzy haze closed about him and wrapped him in numbness.

There were people in the bar, but he could hardly make them out. They came and went like ghosts through a haunted room. He heard noises, but they were dull and meaningless. Voices drifted to him, but he could not comprehend them.

He felt the bit of cold against his hand, the slippery hardness against his lips and teeth, the icy fluid as it bathed his thickened tongue. Once in a while, he heard himself say something, and it was like a thudding echo. Then a vague form would materialize before him, and he would take up the bit of cold again and feel its bite upon his throbbing lips. He would always remember about the money. But he didn't give a damn for money.

The room washed away through films of mist, slowly at first, then faster; and then it was gone. Explosions echoed in his ears. He was crouched against the side of a ditch. He could feel himself pressing down. He squinted his eyes below the edge of his helmet as he looked up fleetingly at the ravaged hillside. He was shaken, but he knew he must go on.

He reached out. There was something cold in his hand. Looking down he saw that he was holding the hand of a dead friend. Slowly he let it slip from his grasp. It seemed to break; there was a tinkling sound, and then a hush. He crossed his arms on the cold wet bank before him and dropped down his head.

He was shaken by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He was vaguely aware that he must get up, must get a hold of himself, and must go on alone. He pushed up from the side of the ditch. His sleeves were cold and soppy.

A vague form lurked before him. There was a voice, a heavy voice, pressing through the fog. Something had broken. He seemed to remember but couldn't comprehend. Then he heard something about home. That was it, he had orders for home, but there was something strange about home that he couldn't remember.

He turned slightly and reached his feet to the floor. He pushed himself upright. He heard again that he was to go home and he nodded. There was a door somewhere. It swayed before him like a haunted shadow. After a few staggering steps he stumbled against it. The door swung open as he continued to lean against it.

He made sudden stabs with his feet to keep his balance as he plunged out into the soggy night. The cold mist swirled into his hot face, and his eyes blinked wide.

He stumbled and went down on his hands and knees. Someone walked up in front of him. Lucas noticed a badly scuffed pair of men's shoes.

Cab, sir? The voice echoed up from the sidewalk.

Don't call me 'sir', Lucas said and started to get to his feet.

Here, let me help you up, the voice said.

Lucas grabbed the offered hand, took a firm grip, and appraised the strength of the arm that helped him stand up.

Thanks, soldier, he said. What's your rank?

I'm a cabdriver. I just dropped off a fare. The young man smiled and touched the shiny black bill of his yellow hat.

Oh. Lucas needed a moment to think. I was a sargeant once, he said.

Well, Sarge, are you all right?

Sure I'm all right.

Do you need to take a cab? the cabbie asked with a nod.

A cab? Lucas blinked his eyes, took a quick look around, and noticed the yellow cab parked at the curb.

How you going to get home, Sarge?

I got orders. Lucas took a breath and shivered against the cold. I mean, I should get home.

Looks that way.

What'd you say your name was?

Everybody calls me 'Charlie'.

Everybody?

Sarge, you're really loaded.

I know it, Lucas said. Maybe I should take a cab home.

Good idea, Sarge. You got cab fare?

I got a few bucks left.

Right this way, Charlie said. He stepped over to the curb, and reached to open the rear door of the cab.

Okay if I get in front? Lucas asked.

Sure, Sarge, Charlie said and opened the front door for him.

Thanks.

Watch your foot, Charlie said, and closed the door. He hustled around the front of the cab and got behind the wheel. Now where are we going? he asked.

Go down to San Pablo Avenue and turn right.

I got to write down the address first.

What'd you say your name was?

Just call me 'Charlie'.

Now I remember. Twelve Seventeen Donal Street.

Where's that? Charlie asked. He dropped the flag and started down University Avenue.

Man, I'm blasted. My wife is going to be mad at me.

You say I take a right on San Pablo?

Yeah, Lucas sighed. Then he leaned back, and sighed again.

Hey, Sarge, don't fall asleep on me.

Oh, I'm sorry.

You’ve got to give me directions. I don’t know the streets and half the time, I can’t see the house numbers. My flashlight’s not much help.

Man, you need to get yourself a lantern.

What’s that?

A brakeman’s lantern, Lucas said and made a circle with his hands. "It’s about so, with a looping handle, and it holds a big, six-volt battery. It has two bulbs, and one of them is a spot for reading boxcars.

Sounds good, but I still need directions. Are we getting close?

Oh, it's a ways yet. Man, my wife is going to be mad.

Maybe she'll be happy to see you get home safe and sound.

You aren't married, are you?

No. I figure I got plenty of time for all that.

Don't be in no hurry. That's my advice.

Anyway I haven't had much luck with girls yet.

Take a right at the next corner.

Okay, Sarge.

Were you in the Army?

No, I did a hitch in the Air Force. I only got out six months ago.

How come you're driving a cab?

It's something to do, Sarge, Charlie laughed. There's not much call around here for someone to patch bullet holes in aircraft.

Take a left at the next corner.

Okay.

You look like you're in pretty good shape.

Yeah, I've been working out at the Berkeley Y.

You'd make a good soldier.

Oh, I don't know, Sarge.

Well, I know about things like that. When your life depends on it, you learn pretty good.

I see what you mean.

If I say you'd make a good soldier, it's like I'd be willing to bet my life on it.

Well, thanks, Sarge.

You can turn around at the end of the street. Just drop me off in front of the parking lot.

Is this okay?

This is fine. What's the fare?

Two-twenty.

Here's three bucks. Keep the change.

Hey, thanks a lot, Sarge, Charlie said and flipped up the flag.

No sweat.

Are you sure you can make it all right?

In the shade. You take it easy now.

You too, Sarge.

Remember what I told you, and keep your goddamn head down.

Okay, Sarge. Good by.

Good by. Lucas waved and started into the parking lot. Now what did he say his name was? he mumbled the question to himself. Oh, well. I still say he'd make a good soldier. God, it's foggy out here. I better get inside. Damn, she didn't even leave the light on for me.

Lucas made it to the apartment door and quietly opened it. He didn't turn on the lights. He strained against the darkness and felt his eyes bulge with weariness. The thought of having to be quiet made him unsteady. He had to hold onto the walls as he made his way into the bedroom. He undressed slowly and slid in under the covers. Janice groaned and pulled the covers tighter around her shoulder.

Lucas closed his eyes and they burned for a moment. Then the room began to revolve, and his arms and legs began to float off into space. He reached a leg out from under the covers and let his foot down. The touch of his foot on the floor steadied the room and kept him from lapsing into vertigo.

As the spinning universe in his brain slowly came to rest, the impending weight of weariness and alcohol fell like a club, and Lucas was instantly asleep. He was too tired to move and too numb to dream; he slept for a long time, the sleep of the dead.

Finally his foot got cold. He pulled his leg back in under the covers. He started to remember the war, but he knew he wasn't going to dream about it. He knew he was back from it. He had his whole life ahead of him, but now he found himself longing for things he could never go back to.

He had grown up in Dunsmuir, a small, railroad town in the mountains of Northern California. The town lay stretched out in a canyon a few miles below Mt. Shasta where the Sacramento river was a trout stream. His two most prized possessions were a bamboo fishing pole and a single-shot Winchester 22 rifle. He had grown up fishing and hunting. His days had seemed endless with a world of time unfolding in nature from one season to another. All the rest was innocence.

Now his life was full of minutes and hours, and he was in danger of losing his sense of what was timeless. He was on the clock, getting to work on time, paying attention, meeting obligations, and wondering how he would ever satisfy his wife's expectations. All she wanted was a home in the suburbs, a nice car, and to live her life in a socially acceptable manner with no embarrassment.

Earlier on the way to work, Lucas had stopped next to a front yard when a slight movement caught the edge of his eye. He stopped and stood still, watching a robin on the lawn. It hopped furtively, hesitating, cocking its head attentively as if listening, darting its beak into the turf, and skillfully making its morning repast. For a moment he was the robin. Then realizing he had no time to be a robin, he had to hurry to catch the bus.

Lucas was twenty-eight years old. He had married young and gone off to war. His boyhood was far behind him, but he wondered what had happened since those years to change things so much. He had lost something he hadn't been prepared to lose. He remembered the mountains. He remembered the warm summer nights. He remembered how Janice looked when she was in the tenth grade. He hadn't been able to keep his eyes off her body.

He rolled onto his side and started to reach for his wife, but he hesitated. He had learned well enough to leave his sleeping wife lie. Then he watched as Janice pulled herself farther from him and doubled herself into a tight ball of covers. Even from the depths of sleep she could express her anger and rejection. Lucas slowly relaxed onto his back and dropped off into a sleep of last resort.

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Chapter Three

Charlie was first in line at the cabstand in front of Foster's at Fourteenth and Broadway. He was out of his cab, leaning up against the call box with his arms folded across his chest.

An early mist was coming on strong with a chill in the air. He shivered, dropped his arms to his sides, and stuck his hands in his pockets. His left hand touched his room key, and his right hand hit a clump of loose change.

He rattled the coins a little and remembered the day the waitress told him that he would always have some money in his pocket if he became a cabdriver. That was the day he paid his room rent and found he had less than twenty dollars left. He remembered that he sat down at his little writing desk to contemplate his fate, but he decided to take a walk instead.

He stepped out into a beautiful, sun-blown morning and took a few deep breaths. He wanted to enjoy one more day before worrying about money. He wandered down to Shattuck and finally went into Mels.

The place was dead. He sat in a booth and waited for the waitress to notice him. When she did, he asked her for just some coffee, please.

He sat there a long time, drank coffee, and smoked some cigarettes.