The Cauldron of Ideas: A Novel

By George J. Washington

A journey into the roots of Jeff Johnson’s feelings and attitudes and responses to life conditions which were learned from the approaches to life that existed in his family, that were forged from the people he met, his cultures, in short, all that he ever was can be found in the seeds of where he’d been and what he learned there. Jeff Johnson, a Black man. A strong beautiful, and proud member of the Creole tribes. He is aware of his tie to slaves brought to his hometown, St. Louis, once the seat of the Louisiana Purchase, a city he practically raised himself in for nearly twenty years, a city he left. Jeff lived in Los Angeles for four years. In the Gare de l’est, in all of the motion and awe of Paris, Jeff reflects on his life as a hustler in Los Angeles, a life that began as a two-year college student but twisted into days and nights between the sheets and about the lives of L.A.’s Black bourgeoisie and other busy cold, and lonely souls of the city of angels. It is in the Gare, while waiting for a storage locker - before stepping into Paris, that Jeff takes a long retrospective, candid look at his life in L.A. - a life he had bought a one-way ticket from, a set of lessons, most painful, all colorful, experiences he had to stop having. Experiences like death and riots that made him move. Jeff senses the conservatism of everyday Bordeaux on the streets and in nearby villages and reflects upon the meaning of life for him, a Black man, anywhere on the planet, and eventually realizes that he has learned much during the summer of ’92 in France, but he also knows that to best apply what he’s learned, returning to somewhere in his country would be best.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796089639

George J. Washington

George J. Washington received a Master of Arts degree from the University of Oklahoma’s Graduate College of Arts and Sciences in 1981. He is a Rhetorical Criticism and Philosophy professional. He spent his early college and grade school years in Southeast Texas. Mr. Washington has served as a Professor of Human Communication Studies in the California State University and Community College systems. In 1982 he was the recipient of The United Negro College Fund/Walt Disney Productions Grant which was used to promote children’s theatre while he served as Director of the Theatre Program at Xavier University of Louisiana in New Orleans. In 1988-1991, Mr. Washington was the founding director for the Los Angeles Storytelling Festival for inner-city high schools and junior high schools. Mr. Washington has written film and restaurant reviews and essays for California magazines and has published educational research articles. Mr. Washington currently writes, travels throughout Europe and the Caribbean, and is an independent Communication Consultant for schools and businesses in Los Angeles, where he has resided for the past ten years.

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Copyright © 2020 by George J . Washington.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-7960-8964-6

                eBook           978-1-7960-8963-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 02/25/2020

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

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ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ONE

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Wild birds were feeding on ends of a sandwich dropped on the smooth cement of a platform in the Gare de l’est in Paris. The birds pay little to anything other than the food before them. Their feet pretend the heat of the surface is cool but it is a hot summer morning and the waves that swelter up from the train station floor make the feasting birds appear to move slower than they do.

These grey and tan and steel-colored beasts fly and hop about the sandy-brown and white meal, squawking and pushing and chirping. Patches of powder puff-like, down on their butts which almost cover-up pink and yellow buttholes turn, twist, and jerk. People stand by and watch, looking while waiting, looking across the quai at each other and about. Some people throw more food at the birds which intensifies the eating and the chirping and the squabbling.

The birds form a partial circle around their prey, their gift from the gods, and some take bits and pieces away from the group which causes some of the flock to follow them. The larger portions of food remain in the center and some birds are not persuaded to leave. Some birds are distracted by the onlookers and flutter their wings and fly away - dissatisfied with the amount of food they received and displeased with themselves for being so timid and scared. The birds flap wings hard, a thudding sound, at the beginning of their flight their wings make a silent fanning sound in mid air and increase in speed as the birds land and they make the thudding sound again. Some birds stop to inspect their feathers between efforts to savor morsels of food. There are birds atop thick steel-grey beams which form a support for the platform which does not protect the passengers or the birds from the light and heat of the sun that forms bright gold walls within spaces between poles along the edge of the quai.

Birds sitting on the beams watch the other birds and passengers below. These birds cleanse themselves repetitiously and chirp and squawk and coo. The sound of all the birds is incessant. The noise of the birds penetrates the gusts of noises of periodical public announcements, chattering of passengers, people huddled about, and flat trolleys with cargo moving left and right.

Among the feeding animals there are fat birds and pigeons aggressively consuming as much food as quickly as they can who are confronted by thinner birds who are equally driven. An old woman with heavy tattered shopping bags dangling from both arms reaches into a decrepit sack and releases a handful of day-old French bread crumbs onto the pavement and walks feebly away. The wild birds fly down from the beams, other birds fly from all directions to the spot and attack the donation.

A train from Germany pushes cantankerously into the station alongside the platform where at left the birds were feeding but now all of the birds except two pigeons flee upwards and away, some of the birds to the steel beams, other birds scatter above the train and to the roof of the station. The birds on the beams above the train look down upon people standing near the train. People stand before the train looking for people they know. There are people stepping down from the train and onto the quai, and people standing and holding luggage in the train, and people moving from the train into the gare.

Within minutes most of the birds return to the cement forming a large cluster of feathered bodies around trampled and kicked about scraps. Some of the birds stay upon the beams chirping a song of discontent aimed at the train and the people it purged itself of and the pack of people the train’s arrival attracted. Some of the birds on the beam are not bothered at all about the train or the people. All of the birds stretch their wings and sing and wait for the next answered prayer to fall below them, confident that food will soon come.

The birds on the beams watch their counterparts below hopping about and between legs and wings. The birds above watch the birds below attempt to feed around people entangled in motion towards and away from the train and each other. These elevated birds patrol the area for signs of food elsewhere and keep their eyes aware of the remnants of the food and the activities of the birds below them and on each other. These birds on the beam are ready to move swiftly down when it is safe to do so.

All of the birds chirped and chirped. Their cries interplay in disharmonious sound patterns with the language and silences and hums and shrieks within the station. The coos of the pigeons are faint sounds seldom heard amidst the other continuous vibrations, but are heard like the heartbeat of the body of the bird family.

None of the birds are really concerned about the Parisian Summer heat. None of the birds really bother themselves with the prospect of running out of food. There is no leader among the birds nor is there any system for their existence with or without each other, they are free. Taking turns while feeding would seem preposterous to these feathered creatures. The station has been here for ages and people have come through the station on a daily basis as they had come today. If passengers chose not to feed them the birds were certain that the station workers would, and there was always the old woman and people like her that found solace in feeding birds.

Away from most of the birds near the steel-bordered edge of the platform stood a screeching baby bird beckoning its mother to feed it. The infant bird sat on its butt and chirped loudly and persistently, so persistently that the child bird was preventing its mother from depositing food into its mouth. What the child bird had asked for was being given to it, but it either lacked the capacity to fully receive it, or chose not to believe that the request was being fulfilled. The child bird chirped so loudly that it was practically giving notice to any near-by birds that there was food to be had. The other birds were actually busy being busy. Between every fifth chirp or so the mother was successful in placing a crumb or two into the infant’s mouth. The old woman had managed to make her way between waiting passengers and in front of the mother bird and its child. The elderly lady now extended a frail bony arm dropping a complete handful of bread near the mother bird’s feet. The old woman had intervened as if she were an angel of mercy or some kind of fairy casting a spell or some kind of wind blowing upon all that ever was, changing it forever.

TWO

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It was the beginning of the Summer of 1992 and like most summers streets were full of Parisians headed for the provinces to spend their grandes vaccances or to England or somewhere else in Europe while multitudes of tourists, many of them American, roamed the city in taxis and on subway cars or sauntered about. Smells of perfumes and breads, of travel-worn clothes, of liquor and pastry, of old wrought iron and dried wood, virtually all kinds of smells were the city’s oxygen. A grey haze of tobacco smoke and engine exhaust turned blue-grey before it sat on roofs, before it merged with the darker blue sky that consumed it. The city was filled with street vendors and their goods, sidewalk cafes, posters plastered on posts, traffic signals clicked and flashed and beamed, blasts of horns echoed, feet went clopping and slapping against cement in shoes of every texture and color and design, and shops of all sorts seemed to shout silently for attention. Only the Tour Eiffel distinguished Parc du Champs de Mars from the Jardin des Tuileries which had the Louvre to distinguish it from Palais Royal. The Place de Republic had its identity emerge from its statue where more than six boulevards met and ended. The Arc de Triomphe de L’etoile helped to make the Avenue des Champs-Élyseé recognizable from the Tour Maine which signaled Montparnarse and Raspail boulevards. Without its numerous landmarks this very old town might be a less discernable mass of action and structure and people and motion. Everything between the landmarks was an array of things and people that caused everyone to look and stare and turn and wonder, to the point that getting confused and overwhelmed was commonplace to say the least. The city barraged one’s senses.

Every foot of each street was taken up by a string of buildings, buildings resembling canned goods laid in a row on a pantry shelf in their proximity. Buildings stuck to one another, the colors and shapes were an arcade of enterprise. Behind each building was an alley. There were probably more alleys than buildings when the entire city was considered. There were alleys where chic jazz clubs stayed open all night. There were alleys in which scraps from cut up fabrics from clothing manufacturers were tossed in bins. Alleys met courts formed at the rear of buildings where people hung their washing to dry on window sills and on lines that began on one side of a building and ended on another. The same rear court alleys had garbage and debris at the base of alcoves formed by buildings amidst wild weeds that grew from food and paper and fallen pieces of laundry and whatever whoever chose to discard and forget and hide. Alleys behind buildings were shortcuts for trucks delivering goods to vendors and for cars that were driven out of the main thoroughfares in efforts to avoid the chaos of Parisian traffic. Alleys housed drunks who’d drunk their cheap ordinary French wine to capacity and young Parisians who stuck needles into pale and blue skin. Alleys gave some two-bit whores a place to pull up their dresses, up against brick walls while winos and dirty day laborers from the countryside would huff and wheeze and slobber over them until their business was done. There were even alleys behind and to the sides of the train station where people slept at night and spent the day begging people on the move.

THREE

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At 10:17 a.m. the arrival of another train caused birds to fly about the people standing on the quai of the Gare de l’est. One of the birds flew closely in front of Jeff Johnson, its wings created quick gusty breezes that fanned the twenty-four year old’s reddish-brown face. He cleared dust particles from his wide olive-shaped dark eyes, and brushed at his short round nose with strong, well-groomed fingers. He shrugged his broad round shoulders which underneath a multi-colored t-shirt and a thin rayon sports jacket were unmistakably part of a body of strong bones and firm muscle. He stood erect, his back aligned with his well-developed calves, his head that joined his short muscular neck was aligned with his firmly structured buttocks. Jeff had been standing there watching everything and nothing. Here he was, in Paris, everywhere he had wanted to be but now he was completely perplexed about where to go. Getting settled in the city was made more difficult because of his huge pieces of luggage. He could not handle his bags with ease. He had spent a great deal of time planning exactly what to do and what to bring but somehow things just happened. He began to reflect upon how things had happened before leaving Los Angeles when an androgenic, worn gentleman with a multi-colored nylon scarf tied around his neck, stood in front of him near the platform of the Gare d’lest. He knew well what the man wanted. He considered that he could let the man do him and get a little more change to survive this trip. He even contemplated the possibility of staying with the stranger for a few days. After all, he was in Europe and open to just about anything. That was the plan.

Looking across the station Jeff noticed a Black and White couple leaving a snack bar with cokes and sandwiches. He moved closer to the couple. His walk was an athletic, leopard-like gait directly towards them. He was almost as forward with them as the man with the scarf had been towards him. He waited for the couple to notice him. He had prepared himself to smile when they did but the couple did not acknowledge him. They would not be any kind of answer to him. Jeff returned to the spot on the platform where he had stood before.

Jeff looked from under his bushy brows about the train station noticing people, their dress, their aloofness, the clock on the broad train schedule near the ceiling, then looked directly at the man with the scarf who had not moved. He decided that he liked the way that the man held his cigarette, between the two fingers nearest the thumb, near the knuckles, it was ‘so European,’ he thought. He noticed the man’s angular face, smaller and lighter than his square, fuller, and serious-looking countenance. Jeff thought that the guy was probably not as old as the folds from the bottom of his nose to his chin and from the top of his nose to the top of his cheek bones suggested. Maybe it was the man’s unshaven chin and dark inset jaws that gave him the impression of having been around a long time, Jeff considered, holding one hand to his own square chin.

Jeff shifted the heavy but sturdy synthetic tote bag to his left shoulder and decided to place the smaller pack he held in his hand on the floor near his suitcase. Once again he looked at the black-haired man before him noticing that his sport coat, slacks and shirt lacked freshness and appeared to hang awfully on his observer. The stranger’s chestnut eyes searched about Jeff from one bag to the other to Jeff’s shoes. Momentarily the man looked away then directly into Jeff’s dark brown eyes. He’s not cruising, Jeff thought. The young man’s encounters with male admirers usually involved having his crotch and buttocks screened. Some men had licked their lips as they looked him over. For a moment he thought that perhaps they did it differently here in France, then decided that his earlier thinking was on target.

Jeff used his wide, sturdy hands to carry his belongings inside the station. To his left he noticed a large corridor where on each of the sidewalls were rows of baggage lockers. The hall was filled with people pushing and pulling baggage on carts toward the far end where men tagged and took travelers’ luggage bound for cities throughout Europe. There were several people holding paraphernalia standing and leaning over carts near lockers, waiting for lockers to become vacant moving in and out of the way of people coming and going towards the exit to the metro and to the doors that led out of the station.

Jeff searched in a pocket of his baggy blue corduroy pants. He pulled out a folded leaflet which was a pamphlet from the United Negro College Fund something someone had given him in L.A. the last time he had wore the pants. He wondered about how White people thought of such