The Scooter Chronicles: A Novel in Three Parts / Part Two

By Edward Beardsley

Scooter moves on. From the success and adventure of the U.S. Navy he is drawn to a place he once vowed he would never returnthe school house.

Will he succeed and survive in front of the class as he did in the crows nest of his ship?

Tolle Lege, Tolle Lege.

Take up and read, take up and read.

-St. Augustine

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jun 26, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491770467

Edward Beardsley

EDWARD BEARDSLEY is the product of the Rogers Park section of Chicago and of Sullivan High School there. He dropped out of school to join the U.S. Navy at the end of World War II. He didn’t see the world but did see most of the Pacific Ocean including Hawaii, Japan, American Samoa, New Zealand, Antarctica, California and some of the girls there.

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Copyright © 2015 Edward Beardsley.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7045-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7047-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-7046-7 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 6/24/2015

CONTENTS

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Acknowledgements

For Ann

ONE

Dear Bro’,

Thanks for the call. I guess I’m damned lucky to be alive, huh? They let me out of the hospital yesterday so I’m writing this from my room at the fraternity house. Please forgive the lousy penmanship; this dislocated right shoulder sends lightening rods of pain up and down my arm when I least expect it, in spite of the pills.

Mom and Dad and Grandpa drove down from Chicago to see me in the hospital. They spent the night but had to get back the next day. Duty calls, as we all know. They left me in good hands: the brothers have been great and Jerry Salles, a guy I met the day I got here has really been my right hand, shaving me and lighting cigarettes and putting toothpaste on my toothbrush. Jerry’s an independent. He’s a pre-ministerial student of the Baptist persuasion, as they say here, and couldn’t reconcile his church’s teachings with fraternity lifestyle. He spent a couple of years in the army but, unlike some of us, I think he carried his maturity in with him. He’s a man of principle and well-respected on campus but no goody-two-shoes. It’ll be a long time before I play tennis again but after a week in the hospital I’m pretty much back to basics as far as taking care of myself.

The wreck was really stupid, Bro’. The Fiji house at the University of Missouri is about forty miles from us. Since we’re a new chapter, someone got the idea of beginning a loose tradition of meeting halfway at a roadside picnic area for what they call a beer bust, each house taking its own keg. These are small pony kegs but they hold a lot of beer. There were three cars from each house. I went up with Bill McDonald and a bunch in his convertible, top down, fall air and leaf smoke lighting up our nostrils. We met the guys from Mizzou, sang Fiji songs, and drank a lot of beer. Around ten or eleven it started to drizzle, but there was no lightning and we were under the trees and there was beer left so we shot another ton or so of bull. Suddenly, a bolt of lightning cracked an oak tree or phone pole close by and we all headed for the cars. Bill was running the top up and the Olds was creeping down the hill when I tried to pile in. Someone hollered they were full and to go with Butch Polan. I ran over to Butch’s ’36 Ford and squeezed into the back seat next to an empty pony keg. There was someone on the other side but I couldn’t see who. Besides Butch, there were two others crammed into the front seat. The narrow, country road was slick and winding and it seemed that Butch was singing too much and taking the turns too fast, but he’d been in the army for four years and was the oldest guy in the house. Also, he’d driven truck (as they say here) in the motor pool in Italy and had to know what he was doing.

Next thing I knew I was lying in a ditch in several inches of water. I heard sirens and saw flashing lights but could put nothing together. I don’t remember the fifteen-mile ambulance ride to the hospital, but I woke up fast when a doctor picked up my right arm and told two nurses to sit on me. He straightened the arm and jammed it back into place. I passed out.

Police photos show the Ford wrapped around a tree, bottom first. Turns out the curve was ungraded. The car left the road and became airborne. When they pulled it off the tree the distance between the front and rear bumpers was half normal. I had gone through the roof and torn a hole in my leg on the wooden strut that supported the composition top. The guy in the back with me had also fallen asleep. His hands and face were cut badly. Butch hit the windshield and his face was a mess. The other two in front were thrown into the dash. One of the cops said we were all lucky to be alive. Turns out, also, two town guys hit the same tree last year and were killed. The couple in the house behind the tree had been cited for having a hazard too close to the highway. They refused to cut the tree down. The story in the local paper quoted them as saying they weren’t sorry. Damn kids would have ended up in our living room, the lady said. Live and learn, I say.

I told you on the phone that we’re in our new house, and it’s a beauty, cost well over a hundred thousand dollars!! It has a large living room with a grand piano and all new, modern furniture. The dining room can be cleared for dances and there’s a small apartment for our housemother. There are twelve rooms upstairs and eight on the first floor, two brothers to a room. We’re all very proud of it, although the modern architecture contrasts with the Colonial of the kappas and the Tudor of the Betas and marks us as the new kid on the block. My roommate is an architecture major from Scarsdale, New York, who’s as weak in English as I am in math. If they run Deception again with Bette Davis and Paul Henreid you can get a good idea of what the house looks like, on a smaller scale. Of course, I hope you and Jean can get up here before that. I don’t know what I’ll do about Christmas, Bro’. It’s going to be awhile before I can ride in a car again, and I’m not fond of the bus. C’est la vie, as the voluptuous Mlle. Tournant might say.

Well, Bro’, I better wrap this up. This letter is four sessions worth as I can write only for brief periods with the after effects of the dislocation—would have to be my right wing, huh? The doctor says I need to exercise it at least twice a day for fifteen minutes each, but I can’t get the arm above chest level and it hurts like hell.

We had a couple of days of Indian summer last weekend. I was in the back yard, shirtless, exercising my arm and soaking it with sun when Bill McDonald said to bring it along, that he and Howie Jenkins and Brian Hartman, my new roommate, were going swimming at some fishing hole outside of town. Some day I’ve got to have a convertible. That ride was so nice. I sat in the back, head against the boot, and closed my eyes. I couldn’t find the swimming hole again, Bro’; didn’t open my eyes until we got there. I didn’t think to grab a suit because I knew I couldn’t lift my arm to swim, figured I’d just sit on the bank and watch. Turns out nobody else had, either. They all just peeled off their clothes and jumped in, as they say here, buck-ass nekkid. A tire hung from a tree. The three of them took turns swinging far out over the pond and dropping in, butt first, cupping their nuts with one hand for protection and beating their chests with the other through Tarzan yells. It looked like a lot of fun. All of a sudden my last pain pill wore off. I thought maybe the cool water would help so I stripped down and waded in. The drop-off was sharp. I had to start moving or go under. I dog-paddled with my legs and left arm. The cold took my mind off the pain and I managed a sort of left-only sidestroke toward the opposite side of the hole, perhaps a hundred yards away. Soon the splashes were some distance behind me and I was moving comfortably. I turned on my belly to test my crawl. Instantly, I was jabbed by an ice-pick. It felt like it went completely through the head of my penis. I knew there must be blood. I screamed and thrashed my way to the far side of the pond. The guys heard me and came running, oblivious to their wienies swinging and bobbing, as the shape and length would have it.

I was lying on my back and breathing heavily when they reached me. I opened my eyes. Bill and Brian looked worried. Howie, the only one of us approaching a country boy, was bent over with laughter and pointing at my purple pudendum. Scooter! he howled, next time you go fishing bring a cane pole and a can of worms! You’re lucky the water is cold or that bass might be having your balls for lunch. I laughed. We all did, four naked fraternity brothers on the side of a fishing hole somewhere in the middle of Missouri. The air had chilled and we were shivering by the time we got back to the car. We protested but Bill left the top down, agreeing only to switch on the heater, which didn’t help much in the back seat.

We lighted cigarettes and Bill produced a flask from the glove compartment. Brian said we should stop by the gully behind the tennis courts, said he heard one of the town nymphos was taking on one of the houses in the back seat of her car for smokes and beer. She must really like it, he said, and I could sure use a little after a couple hours of Tarzan. Drop me off, I said. The thing she likes is that she’s got it and gets off on thinking we can’t do without it. Besides, one look at this thing of mine and she’ll high tail it to the drugstore for some clap cream. We all agreed to go to the Palace to see our buddy, Harold, and sip a few beers.

More later,

Scooter

Dear Bro’,

I’m truly sorry about Christmas and I do appreciate you and Jean and the folks including Lori in the festivities. She said it helped my not being there, in spite of her own rather large family.

I know, also, that makes it two in a row, but, as they say, you do what you have to do. Last year it was acclimation to academia; this year it was a simple case of fear of the road—in any kind of vehicle, with any kind of driver. My other excuse is that they made me house manager. Don’t ask me why unless a few of the artistic and organizational skills I inherited from Grandpa betrayed me. I didn’t ask for it. I learned in the navy not to volunteer. Anyway, the president had some projects he wanted done and asked me to stay over. Yeah, he’s the same one who asked for help in moving last year. But he stayed to work with me so what could I say, especially under the circumstances? One of the projects was shelving for the kitchen pantry—seems the architect forgot something. In spite of my ten thumbs, it’s a fair job. The patio in the back yard turned out better, mainly because it was beyond both of us and we hired help. A bricklayer I’m not. Anyway, it kept me off the crowded holiday highways, and I was glad. Turns out my German professor friend did a three-sixty on ice coming off the bridge on the Illinois side of the Mississippi. I’d have been on the floor of the back seat, for sure, and probably cleaning the upholstery for a few days.

The long semester starts next week. We’re already deep in plans for our first big Fiji Island bash in late May. As house manager, I’m committee chairman. Thanks, but no thanks, old buddy. This is our first so I have no past to build on, no available comparisons. The Field Secretary has given us photographs from other chapters. We can borrow from them and add our own touches. Aside from purple (one of our colors) passion, a spiked concoction each Fiji house pretends comes from a standard Fiji recipe handed down over the years—but which is actually an individual chapter mix—the central theme of a Fiji Island dance is, for obvious reasons, the use of the sarong, bare-chested for the guys and with matching halter for the girls. In combination with purple passion, these costumes are reputed to produce spectacular romantic situations, especially after the ice has been broken and the dancing starts.

Lori writes regularly; she doesn’t date much so her evenings are free when the family isn’t sitting around the dining room table playing canasta or five hundred rummy. The other night she called. She was crying. Her older brother, John, is in the air force. They were very close until he went off to fly Mustangs in Europe. He’s home now but only on leave. Seems he’s signed up for another hitch and is to retrain in the new P-80 Shooting Star jet somewhere in the state of Washington. They’re all afraid of the situation in Korea and that he’ll be in combat again. I couldn’t fix it but I tried to be a good listener. She was clingy, saying how much she needed me, not hard for a guy to take, huh? She asked about Sara Smith, the girl I usually date for movies and parties. Sara’s cute as hell but we’re not going anywhere except to have fun, certainly not to bed; that’s not the way we planned it, it just happened that way. I think Lori worries about Sara. On the phone she suggested we both not date any more. I told her that for me that was unrealistic while I’m in college and, especially, in a fraternity. She said she understood. I wonder. She loves her job at Kemper but when the day’s over it’s over—there’s no homework and, with John to worry about, and now me, I think she tires easily of the family. Bro’, I don’t see how this is going to play out. If you have any advice, I’d love to hear it. I’ve still got two and a half years to go. Maybe Jean can help, from a woman’s point of view.

So long for now,

Scooter

Dear Bro’,

Damn! We’re missing each other all over the place, aren’t we? Sorry you couldn’t get home for Easter, but I understand—all those college girls home and needing tennis instruction. Ha! Ha! Good thing Jean’s got you where she wants you, if you know what I mean. By the way, tell her thanks for the good counsel. Women do have a way of cutting it fine, don’t they? She says simply, of a complicated thing, You can’t do it and date around at the same time, and that goes for Lori as well. Period. Case closed. In other words, keep it in your pants or go steady. Of course, just about anyone who sewed it up or tied a string around it, so to speak, would come to that conclusion. I think it was Thomas Wolfe who said you can’t go home again. And then there’s that line from a World War I tune about keeping them down on the farm after they’ve seen Paree. So, after he’s diddled the dame or she’s balled the boy, holding hands at midnight is about as satisfying as chewing milk. Anyway, dear sister-in-law, thanks. I guess that’s why they invented marriage.

I rode with my German professor friend who thinks I’m crazy for (among other things) studying French instead of the glorious language of Goethe. He still rants and raves a lot while he drives, and I worry about the fact that his hands follow his eyes so when he looks at a cow we head for it. It was my first road trip since the accident. I explained the situation to Felix (Dr. Kessel to him) and he said I could ride in the back seat as long as I’d talk with him and not slam my foot on the floor every time he braked.

As usual, I went first to Lori’s. Lori came to the door. She’d been crying. They were all seated around the television and the mood was somber. She led me to the group and a place on the floor next to her. The only light in the room came from the set and the glow from her dad’s cigar and several cigarettes. The fighting had begun in Korea. A list of casualties and MIA’s was rolling up the screen. Lori’s brother, John, a telegram said, had been shot down over the Sea of Japan. His name was not on the list.

Lori’s mom turned off the television and walked toward the dining room. I sat for awhile with the others—her dad and aunt and brother and sister, my arm around Lori. Several questions that had evidently been asked before I got there were raised again. They didn’t know if he’d been flying a Mustang or a P-80. Was he on reconnaissance or an attack mission? Was he alone or in a squadron? Were they still looking for him and how, by air or by carrier? And my unspoken question: would the silver star in the window be replaced by a gold one?

One by one we got up and straggled down the hall to the dining room. Mrs. Thomas had fixed a Tom Collins and was shuffling cards. It was her signal to let John go until the next reports at eleven o’clock.

Lori and I went to church Easter; I don’t think anyone else did, but then you don’t have to be in church to pray. John has to make it and for that reason I fear he won’t. Every family has a star in the window and in this one it’s John. All too often, stars die, I’ve noticed, like Glenn Miller and our beloved Uncle Bert, both of whom went down over the English Channel. The picture on the mantel could be used as a recruiting poster—John in his fleece-lined helmet and leather flying jacket, smiling and looking skyward. Christ is risen, we sang and said and were thankful for, but it was a gray weekend on Albion Avenue, Bro’, let me tell you. We sat in the sun room Easter afternoon and sipped a beer. One of the neighbors across the street hid eggs in the front yard bushes for the kids. The girls seemed to enjoy the hunt in their new dresses. The boys looked uncomfortable in their little suits, as if they’d wanted to change after church but were not permitted, probably because of the early family dinner. Couples strolled the street, the women looking at ease in their finery, the men, usually, carrying their jackets. Makes you wonder if it’s universal, this difference, or if men’s clothes are inherently lacking in comfort. Easter is such a bright day, even overcast, as it so often is and was that day. It didn’t rain on the Michigan Avenue parade, according to the papers, but it might as well have in the Thomas apartment. The eleven o’clock news didn’t help any Thursday night, nor Friday or Saturday. There were new names of wounded and dead but John’s name was not among them. He’s still missing in action, normally a cause for hope; but for pilots over water no news is seldom good news.

We played rummy and had a few drinks and watched the television. Lori’s mom tried hard to keep the conversation off John, but failed most of the time. I had to leave at five for my ride back with Felix. Lori cried, asked me to take the bus the next day. I could have missed the classes but knew another day wouldn’t fix anything. I didn’t mention John to Felix. I was saturated and afraid I might set him off on World War II and his relatives. It wasn’t a lost weekend but it was close. You do what you have to do, as a friend of mine says. And, for John, it could easily have been last rather than lost. Please pray for him, Bro’. Father Jim said in a sermon a few years ago that Lincoln, during the Civil War, described as a last resort how he went to his knees in prayer. Father Jim said maybe he should have done it as a first resort. The story drew a lot of smiles but I think there’s power there. What the hell, if it’s good enough for Abe…

Sorry this is short.

More next time,

Scooter

Dear Bro’,

Did you ever see