Who Am I? A Novel of Self-Exorcism

By William Gibson White

Why would a young man ask himself this question: “Who Am I?”
Surviving the Korean War made Pat Payne question the past and future and whether he would continue to exist. Or want to. In high school, he learned letterpress printing and went to work as a printer apprentice after graduating. When the Korean War started, he volunteered for the U.S. Marine Corps and, after training, was immediately sent to fight in Korea. What he experienced there, left him bewildered at the cruelty of the human race.
Upon returning to the states, he enrolled in a printing school to become a typesetter machinist to enhance his trade. After having several anxiety attacks, the doctor said nothing was physically wrong and gave him tranquilizers. His advice was: “When it gets so bad you can’t stand it, take a pill. Otherwise don’t. Pat, get a hobby, get a girlfriend and do something with your life.”
After a failed suicide attempt, Pat decided there must be a better way of facing his fears. He learned hypnotism on his own as a hobby. This led him to major in psychology at a state university—not that bright of a decision. But he did find what he should do with his life.
While studying he had a part time job with a local newspaper and became romantically involved with a couple of women. Into the picture, came a rattlesnake-handling preacher who had a shady past and present, including murder.
Slowly life became good for Pat, but, according to Murphy’s law, what can go wrong will go wrong.

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Gibson White
• Release date: May 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310746031

William Gibson White

Born in Hot Springs, Arkansas, William Gibson White said his first thought was: “Either I don’t have a sense of humor, or I don’t belong here.” So stupidity reigned over intelligence, and he stayed and found his sense of humor as a philosopher. Better paying jobs have included: Cotton picker, hay baler, newspaper carrier, U.S. Marine Corps sergeant with one year in combat during the Korean War, short order cook, hypnotist, journeyman printer, writer, businessman, and college instructor. After his Marine Corps career, White completed a Linotype typesetting course at the Southwest School of Printing to supplement the vocational printing trade he took in high school. Then he worked in print shops and newspapers while attending college on the GI Bill. He graduated from Henderson State University with a degree in psychology and English. Later, he became a journeyman printer and did graduate work in English at The American University in Washington, D.C., while setting type for The Washington Post where he worked for 22 years. White has always been interested in writing. His articles have been published in several newspapers including The Washington Post, Detroit News, Rhode Islander and the Arkansas Gazette. He self-published “Born Again! As a United States Marine!” in 2002, "Cupcake, Kids and Me" in 2003 and "Rings of Death" in 2008. Currently, he writes a column for The Standard, a weekly newspaper and a monthly humor column for his hometown newspaper, the Hot Springs Sentinel-Record. Most of his poetry deals with war, religion, enlightenment and “the meaning of life” and has appeared in several publications. White thinks the answer to human behavior lies in this explanation by Mark Twain: "When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained."

Book preview

Chapter 1

DESOTO 1954

To be involved in catching a murderer wasn't what I expected—especially when I considered myself one—but with the blessings of the U.S. Government.

I was Sgt. Patrick Scott Payne, U. S. Marine Corps. After I finished my three-year-hitch, I knew I was crazy as hell. My shaking hands got worse, and it was difficult for me to sit still. For three years, my life had been regulated by military structure.

Making a living wasn’t a problem because I was learning the printing trade. Vocational Printing and English had been my majors in high school. There I had learned typesetting by hand from a case, page makeup, press work, paper cutting and some Linotype operation. Automatic presses were my favorite. Feeding paper into presses by hand was more of a chore. After graduation, I found an apprenticeship in Lloyds Press before joining the Corps.

Immediately after my discharge, I took a six-month course at Southwest School of Printing in Dallas, Texas, paid for by the G.I. Bill. There I learned the operation and maintenance of the Linotype—a typesetting machine.

Strange my first job as a machinist got me involved with a murderer.

Now back from the Korean War, and with the completion of the machinist course, the same shop re-hired me. The trade was the same, but I wasn’t. It was a forty-hour-a-week job, and even with over-time, it didn’t take up enough of my life. There was too much time left for thinking.

I had the same re-occurring nightmare. Bugles blew, the night thundered with explosions, hundreds of screaming Chinese overran our position—and my rifle always jammed.

What was strange, it had never happened to me. Sometimes, it did to the Marine infantry when I took their fire missions. I had directed artillery many times on forward observers’ bunkers under attack, hoping the shrapnel or sandbagged roof wouldn’t collapse and kill them. As it did one terrifying night.

Then there was that other living nightmare that was true! God! The thought still made my stomach retch and I wanted to heave my guts.

* * *

That war ended in a stalemate at the 38th parallel a year ago, but mine was still going on. Goddamn! Why couldn’t I let it go?

Since I was back home, my anxiety had worsened. Stomach butterflies, racing heart, feelings of impending doom—all were driving me crazier.

And there was no one to talk to about it. Only combat veterans who'd been there would understand, and I didn't know any.

Wherever I was, if I wasn’t busy working, I wanted to be someplace else. I had to keep moving. In the evenings, I got into my car, alone, and just drove until I was tired. Most nights I ended up in a bar at closing time, drinking two quick beers before going home to bed.

I was staying with my parents who lived with my Grandma Bishop on her no longer cultivated farm near Desoto. It was a temporary arrangement. Alcohol storage was a problem. Mama didn’t allow beer to contaminate her refrigerator.

So I kept six-packs in a cold spring under the hill.

Keeping busy was my immediate therapy. Many years of neglect at the farm left much to be done inside and out. Since I preferred being outside, I began in the yard mowing grass and trimming shrubs and trees. Two outbuildings had collapsed. The lumber was rotting, so I piled it all up and burned it.

While in Korea, I had begun a college psychology correspondence course from the Marine Corps Institute but never finished it. I read enough to know I was responsible for my mental condition.

Why was I driving myself crazy? Rationally, there was no reason for it. But emotionally, it was there. The war should have been over for me, but somehow it wasn’t. Why was I hanging on to it? I had dug myself deep into a hole of guilt with no way out.

Suicide had crossed my mind. A bullet from a .45 pistol into the roof of my mouth would do it. I’d bet I wouldn’t even feel the pain or hear the bang. I had seen what a double-barrel shotgun could to a Marine’s head. So suicide was an option.

What if my problem was physical? Soon the butterflies in my stomach turned to stinging bees, that hurt so bad, I thought I had ulcers. Then along came a continuous upset stomach and diarrhea and I sometimes threw up. It was time to see a doctor.

Upper and lower GIs confirmed—other than a harmless fungus growing in my stomach—there was nothing physically wrong. The doctor gave me a tranquilizer to take when I could no longer stand my condition.

His advice: Pat, get a hobby, get a girlfriend and do something with your life.

Chapter 2

I took the pill the doctor prescribed, knowing it was a crutch. So was suicide—but I decided that was the solution.

It took planning. A .45 pistol to my temple? Or stick the barrel of a 12 gauge shotgun in my mouth and pull both triggers with my toe? No. I had seen the results of both. Either way would be quick. But it would be shocking to whoever discovered the body. And there would be one hell of a mess to clean up.

Drug suicide was out. I wanted the end to be quick, but at least I wanted to experience the transition. For two weeks, I planned and discarded ways. It was almost fun. I quit taking the tranquilizers. Then I found the satisfactory solution—a no-mess death. I decided to do it the next weekend.

Just before quitting time at Lloyds Press, on Friday afternoon, I set my own epitaph on the Linotype in thirty-six point type centered on thirty pica slugs. Then I went to a hardware store and bought a dozen steel concrete nails, six sticks of dynamite, caps and fuse—for removing stumps—I told the clerk. No problem.

My grandmother’s house sat on a hill surrounded by forty acres of woods, rocks and fields. Saturday afternoon, I found an old canvas haversack I had liberated from the Marine Corps and stuffed it with what I needed. Then, I headed for the forest-covered valley below to a long forgotten mine shaft dug about twenty feet into the hill. It was just above a clear spring-fed stream.

Inside, I removed a hammer and large screwdriver with a long shank from the sack. To prevent any accidental explosion, I put the bag of dynamite in the rear of the cavity. Then I went about half-way from the entrance and found a suitable crack in the rock ceiling. Using the screwdriver and hammer, I chiseled out a round hole angled toward the shaft opening deep enough for a stick of dynamite. With a small twig, I carefully tamped bluish clay from the stream bank around the explosive until it was securely encased in the crevice.

Next from the sack, I took a length of fuse, the remaining five sticks of dynamite, and a roll of black tape. I taped the five sticks together. Then cut lengths of fuse. The shorter was approximately ten seconds while the other was three times as long. I put the dynamite and fuses back into the sack.

I took out the metal type slugs along with a hammer and the concrete piercing nails and went outside the mine. Near the entrance, but across the creek bed sat a large boulder almost as tall as I was. On a flat surface near the top I nailed the slugs to the granite with the hammer, putting a nail through each end of the three lines of type.

I stepped back and smiled. What better tombstone could one have? Or epitaph? The inscription could be read easily by any printer or by someone

with a mirror.

Mirror-wise it read:

Patrick Scott Payne

6/9/30-6/18/54

Why?

Chapter 3

MILLVILLE 1935

I was almost five that cold, dark February morning. Freezing wind howled and scratched sleet against our unpainted, three-room shack. Suddenly, the front door flew open and a bewhiskered tramp staggered in among a mist of frozen pellets.

Bad times, the unwashed stranger muttered as Mama hugged him like she had hugged my Daddy before he left. She helped him over to Daddy's chair near the warmth of our roaring cast-iron heater.

Ya jest wouldn't believe it! he said again and again.

Brown shaggy hair stuck out from under his greasy rumpled hat and curled around his skinny neck. Tiny pebbles of sleet clung to him like spilled salt.

The shiny elbows of his filthy brown corduroy jacket were worn through, revealing a frayed hole in his red flannel shirt and showing grimy long underwear. His faded overalls were threadbare and pieces of newspaper protruded from the cracked soles of his scuffed high-topped shoes. He took off the wet shoes and with great difficulty pulled off his ragged blood-soaked socks and hung them steaming and stinking on the wood box.

I thought there was something vaguely familiar about him when he placed his calloused dirty and bleeding feet close to the stove.

His brown eyes showed shock and defeat as he stared—apparently talking to the rusty stove pipe.

Men livin' in Hoovervilles at the city dumps. In boxes, empty sewer pipes 'n' sleepin' in barrels stuffed wif grass to keep from freezin' to death. Like packs o' starvin' dogs, they spend the days scroungin' the dumps for bits o' food, sometimes fightin' over a piece o' rotten garbage! Ruby, ya jest wouldn't believe it! He muttered as a tear rolled down into his matted beard. There jest ain't no work. Two months 'n' all I could make wuz 'at two dollars I sent ya. Lord, I hope President Roosevelt can do something! He got to! He shook his head.

My first mistake was I went the wrong direction. The smart ones went south for the winter. Me, I went north into a freezin' hell! I seen men a'stealin' food fer their children and then a dyin' from starvation 'cause they hadn't stole enough. One family I knowed was so desperate the man killed his wife 'n' children 'n' then shot hisself. I jest couldn't take it no more.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought this strange man sounded like my Daddy.

"Lord, I been hungry! But I met some good people 'at had nothin' much, yet they shared it wif me. I'd been dead if'n they hadn't. I got down on my knees and begged, Ruby. Begged fore a dime jest to get enough food to keep from starvin'!

Once I asked fer a handout from a rich-lookin' man who jest came out o' restaurant in St. Louis pickin' his teeth. The fat bastard yelled: 'What's a strong, healthy man like you doing living like a bum? Why don't you stop begging and go work?'

I wanted to kill 'em! But I was too weak to even reply. So I vowed to myself 'at I'd steal fer the first time in my life jest to keep alive, 'n' I did. It won't say much fer a man's principles when out o' desperation he thinks o' murder 'n' has to steal. It were then I decided I best git back. If'n I was gonna starve, I'd druther die with my own. I headed fer home, hitchin’ rides 'n' walkin'. I guess I walked over two hundred miles. Lord, I've had 'bout all I can take!

His head fell down against his chest. Then he seemed to remember something. He looked around and saw me, and for a brief moment, he almost smiled and pulled me up in his lap against my his cold breast.

My boy! He moaned. My boy. What've I done to ya? Then he began to cry. And my Mama, who was practical and unemotional, did a strange thing. She began to sob, too. About that time Grandma Payne came in the back door, saw her son and she cried. And I started crying because I didn't know what else to do. Later, Daddy asked if there were anything at all in the house to eat.

We got cornmeal and a gallon jug of molasses, Mama said. And the cow ain't dry yet.

Grandma made her son a feast, in his eyes, of hot cornbread, butter and molasses with milk to drink. He ate like the starved animal he was until he was full, and then he went back to his chair behind the warm heater and soon fell asleep.

It was dark when he awoke. The wind continued to howl and pelt the tin roof with sleet and covered the ground with an icy crust mixed with snow. Because we were all together again and were warm, and our stomachs full, I felt safe and secure. The sleet on the tin roof was music. I was happy. But Daddy didn't seem so.

Mama carried water from the well and heated it in a washtub on the wood-burning heater. While Daddy took a bath, he spoke only once.

Ruby, did ye pay my life insurance?

Mama nodded that she had.

Soon Daddy shaved and looked the same as ever—except he was skinnier and never smiled unless he was playing with me.

In the mornin', Ruby, he said, my boy 'n' I'll take the twelve-gauge and go kill us a Hoover hog. We still got two shells left.

I thought everything was going to be all right.

The next morning after another meal of milk, molasses, butter and cornbread, Daddy and I slipped out early into the sleet encrusted snowy fields. He shot a rabbit in no time at all.

Here, boy, he said, giving me the bloody carcass and smiling, but there were tears in his eyes. Run this home to yer Mama. I'll be along.

I took the furry creature, getting some of its blood on my mittens.

Why're you crying, Daddy? I asked, feeling there was something terribly wrong.

It's jest the cold, Son, he said, smiling. Suddenly he lifted me up, dead rabbit and all, hugged me and kissed me, several times. His lips were cold. Now git home with 'at rabbit! Run!

I ran as fast as I could, falling down several times and skinning my knees on the crusty surface of frozen sleet. Somehow, I knew I had to get to Mama as fast as I could.

Mama! Mama! I screamed running past our barn and scooting under the barbed wire into our back yard. Daddy needs you! Daddy needs you!

Mama ran out the back door, followed by Grandma Payne. Seeing the blood all over me from the rabbit, she scooped up and examined me.

No! I cried. I'm not hurt! Daddy needs you!

Suddenly a shotgun blast interrupted Mama's confusion as to what I meant. She looked in the direction of the shot. Then she gave a cry as she took off running with me in her arms down the trail of footprints. It led to a small hollow where the land had been cleared leaving many stumps and piles of brush.

Already in my mind I could see Daddy’s crumpled body lying in the snow.

But I had picked up the vibrations of intentions rather than actualities. Daddy was sitting on an ice-crusted stump. The shotgun lay in front of him. There was a black streak across the snow where the weapon had discharged.

Daddy was sobbing when Mama touched his shoulder. Stupid! she screamed. You could've killed yourself!

I was goin' to, Daddy said. Take my life so's ye'd git 'at thousand dollars to live on. But I jest couldn't do it. I'm too big a coward. I guess I dropped the gun and it went off when it hit the ground.

Mama helped Daddy to his feet and hugged him.

Bill, we'll get by somehow. Let's go home. Besides, she said, your insurance don't pay on suicides.

Chapter 4

DESOTO 1954

The next morning, my last day on earth, I took Daddy to the lake and left him fishing. He would be pissed when I didn’t come back to pick him up.

I arrived home just in time to see Mama dressed in her Sunday best, waiting. She held her Bible and purse in one hand and The Arkansas Gazette in the other. She'd drive my Chevy to church. Well, it was the family's only car.

God! I thought, dreading the weekly guilt lecture.

I reached into the glove compartment for the two dynamite caps, put them in my shirt pocket and got out—waiting.

You oughta go to church and believe in Jesus again.

Can’t do that, now, Mama. Sorry, but that’s the way it is.

I never believed the Jesus story the way she did. But it was a nice story, and if true, I would soon know.

There were tears in her eyes as she handed me the newspaper and got into the car.

I'll pray for you, she said and drove off.

I shook my head, Now, that would help one hell of a lot. Then I headed towards my tomb with the Gazette tucked under my arm.

Damn! Why did my last day on earth have to be so goddamn beautiful?

The warm June morning seemed suddenly happy. The earth vibrated with life. Cool dew, soon to be sipped up by a thirsty sun, still clung in bright clusters on the green grass. Mockingbirds sang in the plum trees. Honeysuckle scented the air with exotic perfume. Squirrels scampered, chasing each other up a hickory tree. Birds twittered and chirped in happy concert among the thickets of persimmon and pine.

I almost hated to kill myself.

I walked down the steep hill on a path under sweeping limbs of oaks that led to the three springs. One still held two six-packs. My brother-in-law would take care of that.

A small creek had cut the soil exposing bare rock. Huge black boulders, partially moss-covered, but otherwise clean and slick, were embedded in the stream. The water trickled—clear and happy—almost singing, as bubbly waterfalls fell into clear pools. I had always felt Godliness here. It was my favorite spot. I came often alone to think.

But now I was past thinking.

Get on with it! I hurried down the creek bed beside the stream. At my tombstone, I dropped the newspaper as I leaned up against the rock to examine my epitaph. Already the shiny type metal had begun to tarnish. Tiny rust spots had formed on the steel nail heads. That should have told me something about eternity, immortality and the foolish egomania of memorials.

Inside the shaft, I looked in the sack for the two pieces of fuse I had cut yesterday. I took them out along with a roll of black tape, a sharp pointed stick the size of a pencil and a pair of pliers.

I stuck one end of the longer fuse into a dynamite cap. With the pliers, I carefully crimped the cap to the fuse. Then I took it over to the stick of dynamite in the ceiling and slowly pushed the point of the wooden stick into the dynamite to a depth about twice the length of the cap. Removing the stick, I gently pushed the cap with fuse attached into the hole and taped the fuse to the dynamite so the fuse and cap would not fall out. Good. The fuse should burn about thirty seconds before it reached the cap, exploding the dynamite. By that time I would be free. My body should be in a million pieces splattered all over the rear of the mine.

I took the remaining five sticks from the bag and used the other cap to fuse the bundle of dynamite with the shorter ten-second fuse. I was ready.

Carrying the bundle under my arm, I walked over to the stick in the ceiling and lit the fuse with a match. Then I lit the fuse attached to the bundle and backed up to the rear of the shaft where I dropped to my knees and held the dynamite close to my chest. I had less than ten seconds to live. The sound of sizzling fuses filled my ears.

Hello, Jesus! Or not.

Chapter 5

CHURCHVILLE 1938

Might have been my imagination, but I was born knowing I was not separate from the universe. I felt attuned with it. My mind was clear without guilt or fear. Then Mama introduced me to the Heavenly Few—a sect of Holy Rollers. I was eight years old.

We lived in Hallelujah County, Arkansas, at Churchville, a small sawmill town with a population of about nine hundred souls. It had seven churches—the biggest sources of entertainment. There had been a movie theater, but it burned.

Church goers kept most citizens in line. And God's love abounded—except for Catholics, Jews and niggers. Somehow, the love Jesus preached got lost.

And if you didn’t fit into one of those religious theologies, you could start your own, as long as it was Protestant and you did the work of the Lord—of course.

That’s exactly what Sister Irene (Rene) Baylor did. She called hers the Heavenly Few.

Not exactly what County Judge Crumett called it. Unfortunately, for him, she bought the empty field next to his property and set up her church tent.