The Meat Eaters

By Jack Eitelgeorge

A novella about a couple who meet in Oakland, California during a period of civil unrest in the late 1960s. Their mixed-race relationshop must deal with the obstacles to their love and friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667839936

Book preview

PREFACE

The Meat Eaters is set in the years 1968 and 1969 during a period of civil turmoil in the United States. The Vietnam War was in progress and the Cold War continued. A social revolution over civil rights developed, and widespread public disillusionment was surfacing. Young black people who attained adulthood in the 1960s were better educated than their parents and they quickly realized that they were being deluded. But young people of other races became disillusioned, too. They all learned that the world was imperfect—their security blanket had been removed and the baby was not pretty. There grew an increasing concern for the morals and rights of all Americans, prompting challenges to acts of discrimination that existed in the country—challenges never before questioned openly. Public violence became a tool to retaliate.

There had been no period that shook the foundation of the principles upon which this country was established more than the decade of the 1960s. Those years saw many conflicts between numerous factions. It became the period that democracy received one of its greatest tests. Though disheartened, I saw the potential for a hopeful story—in fact, the potential for many stories.

I took notes in 1968 and 1969, believing there would be a story to tell one day, especially about the young, white population that was naïve about the world around them. During the sixties many white Americans first really came to meet blacks. The violent and non-violent civil rights movement brought attention to the needs of all Americans. The sad commentary is the fact that it sometimes took violence to bring about needed changes.

My story, The Meat Eaters, does not seek to dismiss the challenges of racial inequality, as there is much yet to be done in that area of need. My story presents a conflict between race, duty and romance. It seeks to present a potential scenario that could have been possible. The novella seeks to address the seemingly impossible ability of individuals to break away from the constraints placed upon them by an insensitive society. It presents a near miss in the arena of human relations—yet one that throws in a little hope. If The Meat Eaters is able to portray this in even the most indirect way, then the work becomes meaningful and the aims of this author have been fulfilled.

Jack V. Eitelgeorge – October 2021

CHAPTER 1

Jeff Wiler eased his brand new 1968 lunar-blue Pontiac LeMans onto the Bayshore Freeway, headed north to his apartment in El Sobrante. According to his Timex it was five-thirty Thursday night, one day before the three-day Veteran’s Day weekend. The evening commute from Oakland through Berkeley promised to be a slow one. He turned on his radio and heard the end of a news broadcast with Black Panther Stokely Carmichael shouting, Black is Beautiful!

No shit, Jeff said aloud. That’s only the four-hundredth time I’ve heard you say that, Stokely old boy. I think it’s time the Panthers found a new spokesman.

He searched the FM stations and settled on one playing a tender Supremes’ number. He loosened his maroon Wembley knit tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and welcomed the slow traffic as a chance to unwind.

A horn blared next to him. He looked over and saw an angry young woman with four children in a station wagon. Her frame strained against a steering wheel that nearly blocked her view. She ranted at the elderly driver ahead. Then she turned her wrath upon a crying child in the back seat.

Jeff shook his head sympathetically. Baby love, my baby love, Diana Ross sang.

The scolding woman gestured wildly. Like Rita, he thought. He opened a pack of Juicy Fruit and put a stick into his mouth. Rita. What had gone wrong? He remembered how deeply in love they had been in those early years. They met at a fraternity function at UC during his freshman year. She was a feisty Mexican-American girl, a senior at San Leandro High School. She lavished her attention on him and he welcomed her favors. Once married, she became more possessive of him, a trait he grew to resent. When she became pregnant with Suzy, Jeff started working part-time as a legal intern in Berkeley while he attended law school. Laurie was born the year following his graduation. Rita never returned to work since she felt it was best for the girls to have their mother at home. Their relationship grew progressively worse. But that was all history now.

Several romantic ballads successively drifted into Jeff’s ears and he attempted to escape into their lyrics. He drove past a young, black motorist in a trench coat, struggling to replace a flat tire. Poor bastard, he thought. Nobody will stop to help him. He thought about stopping, but indecision solved his dilemma, as he soon had traveled too far to return.

Would you have stopped if the man was white? he could hear a make-believe do-gooder asking him. That night Jeff wouldn’t have stopped for anyone. He had tired of trying to please others. He resented the Mr. Solid Citizen role—one he saw as a bit part in the suffocating rat race that ended for some men with a heart attack at age 56.

The strains of Born Free came over the radio, breaking his thoughts. He chuckled at the irony.

Maybe not born free, he said, but, goddamit, I sure as hell am going to die free.

Darkness had fallen by the time he pulled off the freeway in El Sobrante. The station wagon with the frustrated woman passed on. Jeff felt disturbed that he wasted time fretting about his confused outlook on life. Then he recalled that only one more work day remained before he would be seeing his daughters again. Pleased, he set his mind on getting through Friday.

Did you hear about the cop over in Richmond, blowing that guy’s brains out, last night?

Weldon Duffy’s shocking question greeted Jeff at nine o’clock on Friday morning in the cafeteria at the county courthouse. Duffy held the office of Alameda County District Attorney. Jeff worked for him as Deputy District Attorney.

Last night? Jeff responded. Jesus, that’s terrible. He had not read the morning newspaper nor heard a news broadcast. His steely-blue eyes looked inquisitively at the DA. He sat down slowly, lifting his slacks above each knee with his thumb and fingers to preserve the creases. He briefly scanned the table to avoid placing his navy blue coat sleeve on a greasy food remnant.

Yeah, this black guy with an automatic pistol jumped a motorcycle patrolman. The cop was responding to a call in the Iron Triangle District to check out a citizen’s report of someone threatening passing motorists. He’d just gotten off his bike when he was attacked by this big guy with the gun. Apparently he didn’t have time to draw his own weapon. They wrestled around on the ground for a couple minutes, and the pistol went off. For a few seconds the cop didn’t know if he’d been shot or not. Then the black sucker just went limp, half his head had been blown away!

Christ, how’s the officer?

He’s okay. He’s at a Board of Inquiry this morning. I got a quick briefing from the City legal counsel about an hour ago. No one’s sure who actually pulled the trigger.

Jeff looked over at the table next to them and saw that the woman sitting there, a secretary, had overheard the blunt description. She had covered her mouth with her hand. A strand of her blond, beehive hairdo fell across her eyes. She brushed it back but it fell once more. Uncomfortable with Jeff’s sympathetic expression, she rose and left the room. Duffy should be more discreet, Jeff thought.

Can you imagine, Duffy said, having a guy’s brains blown out while you’re holding him? He squinted slightly, awaiting a response.

Jeff said nothing, and shook his head.

Probably one of those friggin Black Panthers, Duffy continued. Those mothers are lunatics. They want to kill every cop in the country.

Duffy took a large bite of a pastry, and chewed slowly, relishing the act, his eyes glued upon the next chosen morsel. He continued speaking, matter-of-factly.

You know, sometimes I can’t believe the developments in this country. Look at the past eight years. The civil rights movement, Kennedy’s assassination in 1963—supposedly by that Oswald guy, the anti-war demonstrations, the black power movement, and then, this year, the assassination of both King and Bobby Kennedy. Jesus, when’s it all going to end?

He blew to cool his coffee.

At least we got rid of that asshole Texan in the White House. Nixon’ll bring it all back together. You know, he really should’ve won in ‘60 against JFK. And he would have, too, if our electoral system wasn’t so screwed up.

Jeff leaned back in his chair, picked up his cup of coffee in both hands and brought it close to his chin, with his elbows on the table. A strikingly handsome man of thirty-five, he had dark, razor-cut, short hair that showed hints of gray at the temples.

His prominent chin pressed against the thumbs holding the cup of coffee. With his strong, striking profile he had been described by some as a young George Raft. He said this was silly, yet he had managed to see all of Raft’s movies and had studied his face closely.

Duffy went on. "The thing that disturbs me the most is this black power shit. I’ve handled a lot of cases involving blacks in the last few years, and I don’t see it getting any better. Each case gets more violent. I never thought when I first