Love Is a Drum: Fiction Notes

By Wallace Collins

THE EXIT INTERVIEW is a story about the competitiveness between two business, oriented buddies whose friendship became marred by jealousy and envy, ended in tragic circumstances, or at best, melodramatically.

In LOVE IS A DRUM, Pops is a senior citizen who shares the spotlight with Malcolm, a young romantic who projects himself years ahead of his time to emphasize with the old man.

THE EMPTY STAGE is a story that indulges in the often beguiling concept of reality. It speaks to a reality that Billy, a television cameraman, and Walter, a character actor, both finds it difficult to identify actuality.

BLOOD AND WINE is a story that shows the need for our compassion in understanding the vagrant and try to ease if not remedy his eerie, and dismal world of existence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 7, 2000
• ISBN: 9781450247467

Wallace Collins

Wallace Collins is the author of twelve books, and now, after some years of writing has completed this journal. Born in Kingston Jamaica, he lived in London and Toronto, before moving to New York, where he is a graduate of Queens College.

Book preview

The Exit Interview  

Good Morning!

. . Bob Clark said to himself as he appraised the lush view in the distance below from the tenth floor window of his Toronto office in Don Mills. Down in the green valley, tops of wet pine trees sparkle in the yellow sunlight. The warm, midmorning, glare punctured the light-blue haze that escaped the green forest and rose like smoke pushed up by tongs of flames from the thick shrubbery.

The grey mist dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared in his sight, which made his view of the valley below even more unbelievable by his incredulous stare. He walked toward the window, reached out for the cord to close the drapes, then halted in mid action; he stopped after he’d suddenly experienced an unusual change of mind. It led him to open the vertical blinds instead, as if to give the sun full reign into his office, allowing the streaming sunshine to enter his early morning business realm of getting started, and bathe him in its warmth.

Bob saw a red glow on his work table desk. Two file cabinets placed on either side under the table appeared a blur in the glistening amber light behind him. On his desk, he noticed the flashing red light against the bright sunlight looming like a halo over his desk. It conflicted with the flood of yellow sunlight he’d just let into his office. His office intercom immediately drew his attention. He walked briskly over to it with the mail he had picked up on his way into the office held securely in his hand. Bob placed the envelopes carefully on the desk with a concerned look on his face. June, his secretary, never tried to get him on the intercom that early in the morning until after he’d settled in his office and had a chance to read the morning mail. It must be important, he thought. He leaned his lanky body forward, his yellow and blue, diagonal, striped, necktie hung loosely from his neck as he tilted his head and flipped the intercom switch.

Yes, June!

New York is on the line, sir—Mr. Woods.

Bob Clark did not know why he grimaced. But he did it again; flinched this time then looked askance and said with resignation, Oh! Put him on, June. He said cheerfully. A blank look masked his inner surprise at getting a rare telephone call that early from New York. Bob put the unopened mail aside as if to dispel his qualms, then picked up the white telephone receiver, preparing himself for an exchange of humor with his boss and old college buddy. They’d come from communities spawned by Mount Vernon, New York, with Bob in Yonkers, coming on the Hudson, while Harry prided himself for coming from New Rochelle’s upscale neighborhood on Long Island Sound.

Hello, Harry! How are you, kid? Bob said easily, by then he had regained his composure and his voice was firm with self confidence. He leaned back in his high back chair and raised his feet onto his work-table-desk. Harry, I hope you’ve got as good a weather in New York as we have here in Toronto. It’s absolutely beautiful. Bob swung his chair around and moved his feet to the edge of the desk, then gazed far into the distance at the red and green hilly landscape of Don Mills. His eyes caressed the view of tops of pine trees. They formed huge green patches on the hillside, going all the way out to Richmond Hill in the North and Agincourt to the East.

Hello Bob, I’ve got tickets for a couple of Broadway shows when you come down to New York. The company booked box seats for you; so you can go whenever you have the time, which I am sure you will have with our efficient staff here in New York working with you. Go see Blue and Green; it’s a play I’m sure you’ll like. It’s a one act thing that I know you will like—that kind of college play. It’s Off Broadway—down in the Village."

Harry, Harry, when’s that? In the fall maybe—if ever . Right now I’m putting together some important new accounts.

No kidding, Bob. We need you in New York. As you well know, we are going through a transitional period here, and I personally want you here with me to see and know all that’s happening. Of course it will be only for a short time, during which you’ll have all the freedom you want. I want you to take charge and fire up things. If no one else can, Bob, I know that you will. What could be more exciting for you Bob, than to orient some of our leading people here with the dynamite sales technique you apply so successfully in Canada?

What’s at the end of this beautiful rainbow for me, Harry? Bob said, a slight edge to his voice.

Tell you what, Bob, buddy, I’ll send you John Wolf from our Montreal office. I want you to brief him on things there and orient him to the Toronto scene. He paused. Bob, he paused again, just enough for him to carry on till you return, O.K.?

Harry, you know that I’ve got my hands’ full as it is here in Toronto.

I know that, Bob. Toronto’s your baby, and nobody’s going to take it away from you.

O.K., Harry. Send me a memo on this with your directives, will you? Bob said.

It’s out. I mailed it myself. It will be in your morning mail. See you in New York. Give my regards to Grace and the kids. And, by the way, Bob, I’ve got a place in Brewster where Dorothy and the kids can breathe some fresh air. It’s near Lake Caramel. You wouldn’t guess who is our neighbor? It’s our black New York City Police Commissioner. He’s moving up in our world. I met him, and he really is a nice fellow. When you come to New York, I’ll invite you to spend sometime with us. See ya!

Bob Clark carefully replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle. He thought that Harry would be the last guy he expected to see living in the midst of some Hill-Billy, sects in Brewster and what’s left of that abandoned farm community. He shook his head in a lament, thinking that Harry would do anything to get ahead, even move his family into that upstate farm wilderness, as he searched through the mail for the memo Harry Woods mailed to him. He ripped open the envelope and broke open the paper and red its content quickly, then threw it onto his desk. He gazed out the window of his office trying to erase the uncertainty that seeped into his mind. An imperceptible shudder ran through Bob’s body. It doused his consciousness, temporarily; long enough to heighten an instinctive feeling that Harry had plunged a knife deep into his flesh, just like the shaft of sunlight that stabbed the big penthouse office window he stared at. He watched the bright, amber, rays sliced through the vertical blinds as they highlight flurries of tiny, dust particles dancing in the air. It mimicked the emotion swirling through his body, racing against the optimism his mind told him was his forte.

Bob Clarke psyched himself into taking a positive view of Harry’s directive, both over the telephone and the memo he just sent him. It helped to reaffirm his conviction that he was one hundred percent a company man. He would do anything the company asked him to do, and go anywhere it wanted him to go. Besides, New York was now the place to be, Bob Clark averred. Particularly, to be there and experience the workings of the city with a Black Mayor in command who hailed from Harlem, and one who, according to his inauguration statement, suffered the children to come unto him. It was not that Bob was skeptical or even curious to see how, or whether a Black Mayor could run such a complex city as New York, but he never thought that he would see that happening in his life time. Bob knew, however, that the new Black Mayor had succeeded a reputedly eccentric Jewish Mayor from the Upper East Side of Manhattan whose detractors accused him of banishing homeless vagrants of either sex from his Home Boy district on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Bob had read this assiduously in the self righteous Toronto newspapers. He had seen glowing evening news reports on the local television channels broadcast straight from New York.

Who could avoid the spiel reported with pride and a sense of irony by high paid television operatives, meant to cheer the viewing audience, suggesting that both New York Mayors took the enormity of their job as mayor seriously, but they are reminded by their daily stewardship of the city that New York City is the most powerful city in the universe, and that its ultimate importance to people around the world is doubly interesting from that of any other city to be found anywhere in modern times. New Yorkers know that their city is unique in its racial diversity, and is noted for the inclusiveness of its citizenry in the city’s culture. It is this diversity and this inclusive nature of the city that deems both men to emerge as consummate actors in their own rights as they sing and dance, not only for Broadway, but for Wall Street, and the Village, and Harlem, and all the five boroughs they often—must bow to in acknowledging their applause of doing a good job. Thus Broadway show tickets might not be necessary after all, Bob Clark thought as he consoled himself in trying to appease his fears of returning to New York.

Bob looked out the window, contemplating what to do next. He pondered how he would cope with his new assignment. It was a responsibility he did not seek or want. His skepticism became tempered by his view of the valley below. He felt soothed by it, enough that he regained his composure, which made him stare into the distance, in awe. He observed the haze as it settled below his office window where pockets of mist enveloped the valley in a white shroud. That sense of reverence passed. It left him with a forgiving feeling. The new high-rise apartment buildings became singularly significant to him then. They appear to shoot up through the misty hillside, like young pine trees, dwarfed by architectural gems like the huge office complex that housed his New York firm.

It too sparked the brisk sunny landscape above the valley of Don Mills, with its marble and glass brilliance.

Bob thought of his wife, Grace, . . would she react negatively to Harry’s request? His heart thumped loudly as he anticipates her reaction. He thought of June, his secretary, and how she might respond when he told her that he would be away and she’d have another boss to contend with? Bob struggled next with his departure and the ill effect it may or might not have on his clients and their interests. They were people whom he’d always maintain close relationship with. It was on that consideration that Bob decided to send out a memo to his clients, informing them of his temporary assignment in New York.

He pushed the intercom button.

Yes Mr. Clark?

Take a note, June, he said, in a friendly voice.

Yes, sir. She gathered up her note pad, jammed a pencil in the electric pencil sharpener, then patted her blond hair in place. She glanced in the little mirror she took out of her desk drawer then got up from her desk. June smoothed the skirt of the light, blue, floral dress she wore. It matched her white, low-heeled, pumps, shoes that sunk into the thick carpet as she walked to Bob’s door and rapped on it discreetly before opening it gently. June walked sedately toward the plush leather chair before her boss’ worktable desk.

Ready, sir, she said politely.

He cleared his throat, got up from his desk and walked toward the window. This is to all my clients: ‘We have served each other diligently over the years and I hope we will continue this happy relationship—no, make that partnership—over the years to come’.

June looked up from the writing pad and continued to scribble in short hand. She observed his profile against the glare of sunlight as it filtered through vertical blinds into the office. It made the near side of Bob’s face looked blood red as he talked slowly, gazing out the window with a contemplative look on his face.

During the coming weeks I will be away in New York at our head office to help to realign the company’s new exciting adventures.

June dropped the pencil; it rebound from the thick carpet and she caught it, choked then said, Oh, I’m sorry sir. She picked up the pencil off the thick, green, carpet again and apologized to her boss, I’m sorry sir.

Bob turned, looked at her and smiled, Don’t be nervous June. There’s no need for that when you’re around me, you know that—don’t you? He gave her a reassuring look.

I’m just surprised, Mr. Clark. Will you be long, sir?

There was longing in June’s voice; she had a forlorn look on her beautiful heart-shaped face with its high cheek bones. Her large pale blue eyes raked over the lanky handsome figure she has been working with for the past two years. She’d always seen him as a man she loved to admire, and without any fear that he might take advantage of their proximity and her obvious vulnerability; he was so respectful of her, and in every way. Any move to the contrary would have to come from her and she had never felt that disrespectful of him to attempt such a move. She remained very enamored by his good, clean-cut looks, and by his kind, and gentle ways toward her, and his clients for that matter, which sometimes made her want to hug him, as she would her father, or her brother, but hardly as a paramour, an illicit lover to be sure.

Sometimes she felt she just wanted to touch him to confirm the majesty in the chemistry she detects exist so magically between them. Their hands would touch each other as she gives him his mail in the morning. Later, he would accompany her to the door after she had taken notes from him where he would touch her shoulder or her elbow. Infrequently, he would simply tap her in the small of her waist as he ushers her to the door of his office. That would make her day. It would make her feel completely rewarded for her employment with him no matter the modest salary she receives that is the average in her profession. But now, she thought, he is going away and leaving her with someone else she had never met or know anything about, someone that she might not be fond of, let alone to work for. June fought back the tears that cloud her vision of her boss as he stood against the incoming sunlight that radiate his lanky, commanding figure.

I hope not, June. I’ll continue: ‘During the time that I’ll be away, Mr. John Wolf from our Montreal office will be acting in my place. He is an able executive. I have no reservations in recommending him to you as someone who is fully able to carry on the good work that Yellow Bird Subsidiaries noted for over the years with you our clients. I will be in my Toronto office until June 27. If there is anything that I can do to smooth matters for you, please contact me before then. I would be glad to comply with your wishes’. Thank you June and try to mail that out before the end of the week.

Bob saw the disappointed look on June’s face; it made him anticipate, with trepidation, his wife’s reaction to him going to New York to work without her and their two boys there with them. For though he had never thought anything else of June but as his able and devoted secretary, he sometimes admitted to himself that he is human enough to have fleeting fantasy of her responding eagerly to his embrace of her. If the unerring sparks that pass from her fingers to his palm whenever she gives him his mail in the mornings are saying something to him, or to her about the potential of their emotional involvement with each other; if any of those slight electrical shock that had transmitted between them whenever she hands him his mail in the morning means anything; then it was clear indication to him, and presumably to her also that anything further between them was possible—if he were that sort of boss, or if he were that kind of person that he’d always prided himself that he was not.

Often, he found himself sitting in his office behind his desk shuffling papers, trying to act natural and carry out with some normalcy, the day’s work. It was his duty to ignore the sinful beckoning in his mind that was secretly going on between June and himself, simply to avoid any of the imponderables that would result if they become too conscious of the chemistry that fills the air around them. He sought desperately not to allow it to affect and alter their rightful status in the company as employee and boss. And, in that sense, he took some comfort from the fact that he was leaving the office, and that June will be working with a new boss. He thought it was a good thing, though the result of a bad idea that he would be away from her, his secretary, and a devout employee. He would be away from that quiet, if not latent electricity he senses exist between them, which he assumed would blow its fuse in his absence.

Bob told himself that he has all the electricity he can handle with his wife Grace; she is more than a hand full in many ways, just as he’d found her indubitably, mentally challenging to him. He loved her for that. It was what had attracted him to her in the first place, her honest, intellectual audacity. He believes that they blended; they were total opposites with Grace’s emotional and progressive, social ideals, which she fiercely defends, as oppose to him seeing every move he makes for his company, and for his family, as financially advantageous to him and his family. Which does not say that he is a man without scruples, but reality speaks.

Part 2

Bob imagined how Grace might react to his going to work in his hometown of New York. In all their years of marriage he had not taken her to meet his parents or any of his relatives in Yonkers, except on the odd occasion when he wanted to reassert his roots, he would refer to them, and credit them with striving to support him through college. He anticipated Grace’s response to him going to work there without her and their two children with him. Bob knew why he had divorced himself from his family back in Yonkers; it was one reason he had taken a job in Canada, to get away from them and the racial turmoil that had existed in his community about housing; he just did not want to be a part of that, anymore.

Besides, Bob knew that Grace’s responsibility to her magazine in Canada, how much she was enamored with her profession as an editor and as journalist that it would be unfair for him to ask her to accompany him and bring their children along to New York on Yellow Bird’s newest assignment for him. He would not ask her to do that immediately anyway, even if he wanted her to, since her long term commitment to the magazine she edited was firm.

Bob was aware of Grace’s contract with his company was solid, with obligations that favored her journalistic ideals that fed her fervent independent wishes. What is more, he saw that the magazine was operating as a success and that it was a long way ahead of breaking even. It was making money and on that score her dedication to the periodical was capital. He acceded to his wife’s independence by allowing her to operate with the magazine autonomously of Yellow Bird Subsidiaries, contrary to his company’s other acquisitions in Canada. It bores’ fruit by the surprising financial success it generated under her leadership. He trusted Grace to exercise editorial control after she had insisted that she wanted the magazine to remain Canadian, both in spirit, point of view and ownership. He granted her wish because he loved her, and he wanted her to be happy in whatever she did. If she were happy, he would be happy, he concluded.

It is understood that Bob respected Grace’s views on just about everything, even when she displayed her, sympathy, empathy to be sure, with writers on her staff who had questioned their loyalty to her and the magazine, and even more to themselves as professionals, hinting of how much and what they said conflicted with their ethnicity. They opine that the confused professional stance required of them, not only confound, but misconstrue their loyalty, just as it inhibits their identity with the culture they belong. They confided to Grace, more as a friend than as their editor and boss, how could they as writers surmount the problem of fair play for black characterization, as they would for white characterization when they are confronted daily with the idea of black versus white characters acting out roles proscribed by the society that envisages them as total opposites in culture. They complained to her, as that of a confidant, and not so much as their boss that blacks is regarded by the greater society as unlawful individuals who rob and steal, who cannot comprehend the niceties of white society. Meanwhile, they as professionals have to entertain willy-nilly that whites are good, unless when they become victims of circumstances pushed onto them by blacks, then they are obliged to legally defend themselves in the best way the laws allow, but to their moral and social peril when accused by blacks as racists. Grace would mother their complaints, as the fair and impartial human being they regarded her, and get their undivided loyalty, and respect.

Bob became appreciative of the working relationship his wife had with her workers, and the social indebtedness she showed in her politics of inclusion with the interracial staff she employed. It drew him even closer to her for he knew that he was not in any way racially noble as she was and it made him love her even more for her bringing him closer to humanity, those people, as he recalled as a reference to blacks when he had lived in Yonkers, or you people in a slight but direct address that was standard then in his area of the Bronx. He admired Grace for her humanity and her social conscience; it made him love her even more when he realized that he had married someone who knew how to organize different people in the work place and to get their loyalty, totally. He sometimes envied her for it since deep down in his bones he would have liked to be able to understand people of different races and feel comfortable in their company without any inhibitory, sensory impulses.

Bob knew first hand how enormously Grace loved him, for himself. It made their marriage complete, he thought, since he viewed himself as the practical, hard-nosed businessman, and that she was sometimes impulsive but always altruistic and a compassionate human being, agog with fair play for all. He believed that Grace knew the high esteem in which he held her, not only for her deep love of him but for her love of others, which made him understood, even more, the close relationship they shared. Bob thought that their two children, John, eight, and Paul six years old were too young to be thrown in a new environment without the kind of supervision the live-in West Indian maid who took care of all their needs in Toronto, offered. He thought that it would not be easy to find that clean-cut, dedicated, domestic help in New York at a price they could afford.

Bob Clark understood that much from the past thirteen years he spent in Canada as Yellow Bird Subsidiaries top representative. In Montreal, he served four years in charge of its Quebec office before the company promoted him to