The Great Art Deco Chase

By Richard Segal

THE GREAT ART DECO CHASE, part prequel to 2011s Nectar of the Lavender, traces our main characters relationships with the best and worst friends from his post formative years, including those also choosing to relocate from their small northeastern city to metro New York. If possible, there are more quirky characters and intense poetry than ever, breeding ground for more adventures than ever.

As we learned in Nectar, he struggles to understand the passing of Jeff and Danny, and although his Malaysian-Caribbean friend Jimmy and Anglo-American friend Big Bad Bill fill in admirably, the balance isnt quite right, because across the verge, there remains Carol Gary, Weird Andy, and Dannys ex-wife Robin, of which more anon. And then theres Lauren, Kathy, and the rest of his social life, which is complicated on quiet days. Everyone would want to be him, and yet no one would.

In a separate alternating side plot, or possibly main plot, we read of the story of Maury and Sam, two boys who became best friends in the 1930s, who parted as teenagers after Sams parents moved to a bigger city in search of better educations. Both seek and find their fortunesMaury as a specialized manufacturer in the Midwest, Sam as a charismatic composer and conductor all of America wishes it could claim.

On a more personal note, this book is largely based on notes and correspondence from a time which was long ago and far away, and Ive taken the liberty to cite some verbatim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jun 20, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468585933

Richard Segal

Richard Segal, an American citizen, resides in London, England, and works as an economic and financial consultant. He has written widely about matters relating to global public policy over the years. His most recent novel was The Man Who Knew the Answer.

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© 2012 by Richard Segal. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/15/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8592-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-8593-3 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Introdu-cing Sam and Maury

Can I Sneak in a Story?

Three Years Hence

Arctic Cranberry

Hitting on All Sixes

Night of the Bouncing Tequila

Vignette, and I’m Sticking to It

Nelson’s Lament

Anxious at the Auction

What, Me Worry?

Pasadena!

Swinging Against the Tide

Back in the Big Apple Groove

The Event

The Excuse

The Moscow Mule, Part 1

The Moscow Mule, Part 2

Man Versus the Machine

Define Large

In Brussels

After The Mills Closed Down

Electric Bug Juice

Rocky Raccoon

The Inventory Model is Dead

Messenger from Die Blumerie

From Golden Age to Golden Years

And of their Ancestral Homes?

Running from the Devil’s Advocate

People Tell Me Things

How Low Have I Fallen?

What Lives We’ve Had, My Friends and I

Hey! What About Dorothy?

To my grandparents

The Great Art Deco Chase, by Richard Segal, is a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, and actual events, organizations or locations, are intended purely to provide a sense of context or reference point. All remaining characters, places, names, incidents, dialogue and opinions are fictional and their resemblance, if any, to real life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

They’re all the best—me, to Jimmy

It was the most photogenic I’d be in my life, but no, I wasn’t with Lauren. I was with my friend Leyla. I was vacationing with friends on the Cape and took time off from listening to bad jokes to hang out with her on the beach. Her folks, both doctors, had a place there. I think it was the most photogenic she’d been in her life, too. She made me smile, but only Lauren could be the true antidote to my unhappiness.

There was a certain freedom in her, the way she moved and expressed herself with conviction, the way her light green eyes had a mind of their own, the way she was. She was my muse, but not in all ways I wanted her to be. My equal in all things art deco, we shared an appreciation and love for decorative art, or at least I perceived that to be so. When the story of my life is told, what will I regret the most? Wait, this is the story of my life. Plus, this is fiction, so I can write whatever I want. This is not method writing, this is not escapism, but how I strive to break through, if not in this book or the next, or perhaps in the last one. Someday, I’ll figure out why I ended up on a bench in Brooklyn Heights, asking what just happened to me? but first I want to tell the story of Maurice and Sam.

I was sitting on the sofa as a young kid, visiting at a friend’s house, and began eavesdropping on a conversation of great uncles and a grandfather. They were discussing the cruise one of them recently returned from, and in particular whether it was good value. I can’t remember the specifics, but he was particularly pleased with the leather saddle shoes he’d been able to purchase for half price, $52, when they’d cost me $104 in the store. This uncle was very proud of the $52 savings on his saddle shoes, which he displayed for all to see.

But did you gain $52 of extra enjoyment from the cruise? an Uncle Harold asked. That is the way to answer the question, he insisted.

$52 worth of enjoyment? Why No! he replied, I didn’t get $2 worth of enjoyment from that cruise. The joint was a dump! he asserted defiantly and definitively, referring to the cruise ship and the quality of services onboard.

How interesting, I concluded at the time, this conversation of the elderly, they were probably in their mid-70s, they seemed so old. That became my catchphrase: No! I did not get $2 worth of enjoyment from that! Thank you, Fred’s Uncle Harry.

Fred’s parents didn’t think we should be playing in the same room as the uncles because they’d have to watch their language. What? A cluster of hardened seventy-somethings won’t be able to let their hair down if two kids are in the room? Well, I’m sure we were listening more than playing, but I don’t recall any swearing. I’d remember that.

Introdu-cing Sam and Maury

I t was 1932 that Samuel and Maurice became close friends, Sam was 13 and Maurice was 12.

Maurice isn’t a boy’s name, it’s for when you’re an adult, Sam alleged.

I will call myself Maury in that case, Maurice responded, a little haughtily.

Call yourself? Sam questioned. That should be your nickname.

Nickname? No, name, he countered. Everyone has an Uncle Maury, don’t you have an Uncle Maury?

No, actually, I don’t, Sam admitted.

Maurice isn’t a biblical name either, Sam asserted.

They’d been discussing what they learned in their Sunday school and the local practice of naming babies after prominent figures in the Bible.

Why not, what are your uncles named? Maury asked.

Abe, Jacob, Sol, he began, reflectively.

Maury stopped him. "You look like a Sol more than a Sam, actually. Mind if I call you Sol from now on?

Sam paused and blushed, before replying, OK, if it will make you happy.

Why do you like music so much? Maury asked to change the subject.

I don’t know, Sam said. I guess I always have a song in my head. Doesn’t everyone?

I don’t, Maury confuted.

What do you have in your head? Sam asked.

Nuttin’. But I do like tinkerin’ with things, Maury divulged. What kind of song is in your head?

Sergei Rachmaninoff! Sam replied loudly. Concerto number 1!

That’s classical, Maury guessed. Isn’t that grown up?

Yeah, but I like it. Sam rebutted.

Someday you’ll be writing your own songs, Maury boasted on behalf of his friend.

You think so? Sam pondered.

I know so, Maury boasted again.

You’re gonna what, be a mechanic? Sam asked.

No, I’m gonna make things, Maury asserted.

What kinda things? Sam questioned.

Dunno yet, Maury answered.

The sun was going over the yard-arm and instinctively Maurice knew his dinner time was approaching. I’d better be getting home.

OK, see you tomorrow at school, Maury, Sam offered.

At which, Maury smiled.

These were the days, when mothers were named Tillie and Grace. These were the days.

Can I Sneak in a Story?

I always wanted to be from the North Shore, just like Jimmy, which is a curious thing to say considering he’s Malaysian, via Tobago.

Malaysians living in the Americas in the first half of the 20th Century? Jimmy’s father was of engineering and diplomatic stock, which explains his arrival in the US and decision to settle in the Boston area. He was ahead of his time and shortly after World War II, felt it prudent to lobby the rest of his family to relocate. Prescient or not, he was worried that the Domino Effect could become a reality, that the communists might triumph throughout Southeast Asia. Even if they didn’t prevail in every country, they could make life difficult in each, and no doubting the implications for civil liberties. As for cultural divides, he didn’t worry, not so much out of diplomatic snobbery, but rather because he felt the Malaysians were different. Neither better nor worse, just different.

I recalled my introduction to Jimmy.

I’m from Trinidad and Tobago, the young man told me.

Trinidad? I asked.

No, he said. Tobago.

Winnebago? I guessed, I mean, wisecracked.

No, he clarified, Tobago.

Who’s from Tobago? I asked again.

I am, he said.

What’s a Malaysian doing in Tobago? I wondered.

Living there? he answered.

And thus uptalk was born. With Jeff and Danny gone, Jimmy was to become one of my best remaining friends, self-righteous as he was. It was indeed unusual to find Malaysians in Tobago, or anywhere else in the Caribbean. His father, though, was sick of the British protectorate and the constant threat of insurgency. The rebels may have had a point, but Her Majesty was fast running out of money to maintain her empire and would soon make way for the rightful inhabitants come what may. Nonetheless, had the communists taken over and transformed Malaysia into another Vietnam, look out.

Jimmy’s father’s fate would have been win-win, because his country began a long march toward prosperity as soon as the rebels were vanquished and the spicy divorce with Singapore was inked, albeit not of the democratic variety. Nevertheless, he relocated from the US to Trinidad, ironically during the 100th anniversary of the first drilling by the Merrimac Company, though activity was small-scale until the black gold rush of the 1950s and 1960s. Trinidad lured many talented foreigners such as Jimmy’s dad and both enjoyed great runs in the sun. It’s a highly multicultural island to begin with and the family fit right in. However, when he set foot on Tobago a number of years later, he resolved to stay put, the caveat being that he kept business and family ties to his birth and adopted countries and travelled ‘home’ several times a year.

Bill was another of my closest friends after Jeff and Danny. However, with Bill in England it was mainly Jimmy. Funny, I’m from a town only a few foreigners have visited, and a Malaysian is my best friend. Well, he looks Malaysian but doesn’t speak the language and has lived in the US a decade and a half. His third country, in that case, unless I label him citizen of the world. He’s funny too, Malaysian people are the best and he won’t date one of his own, and Tobago is paradise on earth yet he won’t live there. Such a strong believer in delayed gratification he could be a priest, yet he’s not that either. Sorry, folks, one religion joke per book from now on.

I don’t know whether Jimmy was trying to be humorous or trying to impress me with his self-satisfied behavior. He’s the one who told me people who work in the life insurance industry are called lifers, by the way. It was natural that we became friends, given that we lived in the same part of the country and both descended on the insurance industry around the same time.

I did look up the history of Malaysia once and discovered its many different influences, therefore I wanted to ask how homogeneous the population was—meaning, are they all the best or simply better on average—but I keep forgetting, you know?

Three Years Hence

I f Benny Goodman can, why can’t you? Maury wondered.

I don’t know, I’m only 16, Sam admitted.

Why not? Maury wondered still.

I’m moving to Boston, Sam stated brusquely with a hint of regret. Our family is moving for me.

For your music? Maury asked.

My father doesn’t mind if I play music or not, Sam said. He wants me to have a better education than here in Lowell.

Whatcha gonna study in Beantown? Maury asked. Aside from music, that is.

Dunno yet. Why do you call it Beantown?

Dunno that either, Maury added. Doesn’t everyone?

No, really, Sam insisted. If you don’t, make something up.

OK, Maury started, It’s because after the Tea Party, they had more molasses than they knew what to do with, so they made baked beans with them.

Sam laughed. That’s funny. I’m sure it’s not true.

Thanks, ‘Sol,’ I’m gonna miss you, Maury admitted. Don’t forget to write.

I won’t, Sam promised.

It’s impossible to overstate how close Maury and Sam became during their middle teen years, but in those days, distance was everything and after Sam’s family moved to Boston, they never saw each other in person. Sam spent most of his time in Roxbury, Back Bay and other parts of Boston proper, while his family eventually settled in Brookline. However, he remained in the small city for only a few years, because the Big Apple would soon beckon.

Boston had the musical heritage and schools of higher learning, but New York had the brighter lights and global cachet, a testing ground with its melting pot atmosphere and cramped apartments. If you could make it here, you could make it anywhere. Just the same, if you hadn’t made it here, you hadn’t made it anywhere. Sam would initially become the New Yorker with the Boston accent, but before long a cosmopolitan representative of America. Every city’s cultural heart wanted to claim him. Before long a dashing 28 year old nobody seemed able to label, arguably creator of the suave look, you were in good stead with other aficionados if you knew of the work of this up and coming wizzkid.

Maury’s family stayed in Lowell for as long as it could, but what a planning disaster waiting to happen. Over many decades of the 19th and early 20th Century, the city attracted critical masses of nationalities and ethnicities—Greeks, Swedes, French Canadians, Portuguese and so on—as it capitalized on natural advantages such as proximity to Boston and position on the Merrimack River. It enjoyed continuous regenerations as a bustling mill town and employment and fortunes were quickly created. Lowell became and remained America’s greatest manufacturing center, and renowned for textiles, thanks to the world famous Waltham-Lowell System. However, its prosperity dive-bombed from the 1930s onward, and it became the model for all great urban clear-outs: Pittsburgh, Hartford, and so on.

The entrepreneurs who built the city tired of placating and otherwise dealing with unions, and reflecting the flexibility of the American economic model and its labor mobility, it would be effortless to move factories to the Deep South, with cheaper labor, easier access to raw materials and friendlier climate. Many economic settlers stayed in the Lowell region, but had to relocate closer to Boston to avoid being trapped in the city of what could have remained.

When manufacturing centers are expanding rapidly, they must import pools of labor from all sorts, because by definition theirs won’t be sufficient. However, if you attract workers from different cultures, you have either to assimilate or train them thoroughly, and educate their offspring. Assimilation doesn’t necessarily imply they must forego their cultural traditions. In retaining the old while acquiring the new, the city’s society may enjoy the best of both worlds.

If you don’t assimilate or educate, though, you create a second generation underclass which resents its host city and perhaps host nation, which in turn mistrusts its once-guests but current citizens. Moreover, when you attract all and sundry from here, there and everywhere, someone has to manage the expectations of the different groups, each with their own aspirations and value systems. It doesn’t take much foresight to think longer term and realize a factory is not forever, that therefore a city must plan for the future, but it takes some.

I talk about Lowell, yes this is about Lowell, the birth city of Jack Kerouac and other artists, but it could be any place. In fact, it is many places. Lowell continues to attract immigrants seeking a fresh start, but aside from an amenable historical museum, is otherwise approaching a century of irrelevance. The mighty Merrimack River still flows through, though perhaps as a reminder to the famous sons it spawned who were forced to flourish elsewhere.

Arctic Cranberry

I can say without fear of contradiction that the last happy day of my life was in 1994, but what a day it was. Lauren and I drove to Beacon and examined every piece of art deco in every antiques shop. We stopped en route in Armonk, at a modern furniture store which had recently opened. It was interesting, this second floor showroom with its own parking lot and vivid day beds, but