by Diane Keaton
To me this photograph captures the power a woman can have over a man. Even though Mom and Dad’s journey became more challenging with time, it was always defined by an undying, if sometimes fractured commitment. Jack and Dorothy were sharing one of life’s great moments of hope. Their son had married a substantial young woman who loved him. In a way, they were “living truthfully,” as Sandy Meisner would have said, “in a moment of fiction.”
Six months after Randy’s wedding, it was George’s turn to fall. He landed on Grammie’s linoleum floor in the room he’d rented for thirty years and began hemorrhaging. As he clutched his stomach in a fetal position, I wonder, did he think of all the pigeons he’d fed out of his hand? Dear George. Life moves on. Love is transient. Men need women, even tough-as-nails women like Mary Hall, or complex romantics like Mom. As for George, he passed on without so much as a wave goodbye to his longtime companion, Mary Hall. The grown-up Hall kids missed out on the opportunity to see George perform one last card trick in Grammie’s living room.
Grammie’s response to George’s all-too-soon, permanent departure from the bedroom off the narrow hallway was summed up in one sentence: “He never gave me a nickel.” When asked about her own death, she said, “I’m not afraid of dying. There ain’t much to it. You can go crazy thinking about it. I say don’t be overactive in thinking because you can overact so much you’ll get the mind going haywire.” At least, that’s what Mom wrote down in one of her journals. Grammie lived to be ninety-four.
Years later, I found a short poem Randy wrote about her. If she’d had the opportunity to read it, would she have understood, as Mom did, that he saw the world through the eyes of a dreamer?
Her long hands stay with me in the dying days of summer.
I see them in the dried out gardens of abandoned homes,
I see them when I close my eyes to forget.
The thin light of their touch slides through me like narrow branches.
What is this gift the dying give?
* * *
—
Life went on. Robin and Dorrie kept me abreast of everything. Dad confessed to them he could only get near one person in his whole life: “Your Mud.” Robin mentioned that Sally took Mom aside, wanting to know if she would approve of her and Randy having a baby—she was feeling “motherish.” Mom, of course, was overjoyed. She described how Randy’d come home, take his shoes and socks off, pull his shirt out, look at Sally, and say, “Hi, Dumbkus. Got any beer?” When Johnny asked him if he could stay up until ten-thirty to watch TV, Randy responded with “I’m pretty sure you’re smart enough to have figured that out by now.” Sally joined in, “No use pouting, Johnny, you know when bedtime is.” It was almost like he’d become a junior version of Dad.
In 1974, a year after the wedding, I was in New York City, preparing to film The Godfather: Part II, when I got a letter from Dorrie describing how Randy’s too-good-to-be-true scenario was beginning to crumble.
Dear Diane,
I’m spending a couple of nights in Silverado Canyon. Immaculate Heart College will be starting soon, so I have to enlist mom’s help in buying a bed, number one, but also getting books and finding a desk and everything else. I’ll have to share an apartment with a roommate. I’m a little freaked out. Speaking of freaked out…Randy seems to be very scared these days. He and Sally almost broke up over his irresponsiveness. Sally said he needs her out of one thing only: loneliness. There’s nothing romantic on his side. His main worry is that he can’t handle working for Dad anymore. He’s afraid he might totally lose it. He’s scared. It’s a bad scene.
Love, Dorrie
Several months later, Robin called to say that Sally had recently had lunch with Mom and told her she intended to leave Randy after Christmas, that he was semi-crazy. She spoke of a so-called waking fantasy he had of killing women. I tried to imagine Mom’s response to such an accusation. A fantasy of killing women? She must have tossed the absurd concept aside, because I never heard it brought up again. Sally wouldn’t actually leave Randy until a few years later.
In his journals, Randy wrote his own response to the split in an unusually long narrative passage.
I began those couple of years in the canyon driving into Orange County every morning to work for my father as a draftsman. I drove back in the evenings to a rented, single-story log cabin I shared with Sally. In late 1975 she and I were still bell-bottomed and long haired. We thought of our place as back-to-earth hip. We felt certain a new way of life had been paved by the revolution of the sixties. In our cabin, the kitchen and bedroom doors held bright strings of hanging beads. The living room, with its large potted plants, leather and wooden furniture, smelled almost as woody as the outdoors. Zen Buddhism and diet were a high priority. We ate brown rice and raw vegetables. Pot and wine were smoked and sipped in the evenings with the belief that wisdom came from the earth. It sure seemed like wisdom as Sally and I would sit outside on our worn out leather couch, and listen to the river.
I’d park the VW in the open garage built beneath our living room, run up the brick steps to the picket fence, and hurry across the wet grass to find Sally standing in the doorway under a yellow light. We’d hug and kiss then step inside, closing the door behind us. God, she looked great in a long green dress that followed her curves down to the ankles of her feet. “Randy, do you want a glass of wine before dinner?” she’d say walking to the kitchen, her backside shifting deliciously. “Yeah. And a fat joint. It’s been a year now, and those dickheads at the office are getting on my nerves.” I’d sit on the couch, exhale loudly, close my eyes and wait for her [to] hand me a cold, tall glass, place the joint in a clean seashell ashtray and set it on the coffee table in the center of our crowded living room. “Can’t you talk to your father?” she said, laying one arm around my shoulders. “Are you kidding? He’s one of them.” After a while she replied, “He seems nice enough to me. I think he can be really funny.” I turned my face to her. “You don’t see him at work.” Sally kissed me on the nose, her olive green eyes, slightly dilated, sparkled like damp glass. “When’s dinner ready? I’m starved.”
We flew (I do not use that word lightly) into the early summer months of 77. Sally had cut her hair. She was sexier than ever. It had something to do with her neck. I had never noticed how glorious a throat could be. She added chicken to our diet. We took to smoking hashish through a terra cotta, toad-shaped pipe. Our fights began to increase. They were always the same. I was always quick to fall silent. She hated that, screamed at the ceiling, and ran to the stereo for distraction. Moments later music would come thumping loud and clear through the cabin. It drove me nuts. It made her cry. An hour later I’d come back to a quiet house and find her cleaning an already clean kitchen. “You don’t fight fair,” she’d say. “I’m sorry,” I’d answer, feeling unhinged about my liabilities. Then she’d walk up to me and sink her tongue in my mouth as if she were mining for gold. After each rift we’d hold hands watching the canyon surrender its color to shadows. Sally always spoke first, her voice liquid and dreamy. “Let’s make love, Randy.” I’d smile as she slipped off her jeans and t-shirt with a single handed agility that never failed to amaze me. Then with the picket fence as our only source of privacy, we’d cling to each other, my clothes coming off slowly, her eyes burning with determination.
My situation at work was unbearable. I found myself downing beer while driving home to ease the disastrous state of my nerves. But I couldn’t quit. The money was too good. One Friday evening I sat at the kitchen table with a shot glass of brandy as Sally talked non-stop about her new job as a florist. The words kept flowing as she placed the stew before me and settled into a chair at the other end of the table. The second our eyes met I knew I hadn’t hidden my disinterest. She frowned and fell silent. The room seemed to darken. For a full ten minutes the sound of chewing and swallowing filled the air. “I’m sorry,” I said. �
�Oh Christ! Shall I write that down?” she growled. Then, with unexpected calm, she scooted her chair around the table and sat next to me, put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed softly. I wept instantly. It had nothing to do with my miserable job. It was in response to the power and meaning of her gesture. For the past year I had been oblivious to the changes in her behavior. Sally had grown up. I’d remained nothing more than an oversized stupid child. A burden.
We stayed together another nine months. Sally loved her work and soon became manager of the shop. We bought another used VW so she wasn’t bound to my schedule. Her manner of dress turned conservative. I must admit she looked nothing less than stunning. As her world was expanding, mine was diminishing. She made new friends, gave small dinner parties in which the conversation was so absorbed with work oriented details I had to make quick exits. I’d walk down to the river, cross the gravel bridge to the main road leading in and out of the canyon. Hurrying up to where the asphalt ended, I’d climb over the fence with a no trespassing sign hanging on its locked gate. My secret place was a large flat stone jetting out over a small waterfall which, in heavy rains pounded over the rock platform with a tumbling white rage. I’d sit knowing I was going to quit my job the minute Sally stopped feeling sorry for me, and eased herself out the door with a clear conscience. Lying back, relief, not sorrow swept over me. I felt light as a down pillow. The air was always eucalyptus sweet, and the stars in heaven shone brighter than before. If there were any heartaches lurking inside me, they had nothing to do with relationships and everything to do with leaving the canyon life behind.
Randy wrote these entries in his journal almost two years following the split. He never mentioned Johnny. It was as if he didn’t exist. If he’d been able to communicate to us at the time, maybe we would have been able to help. Maybe his next steps would have been different. But, then again…we never bothered to discuss the Sally situation. It was too painful. Perhaps, along with Sally and her son, Johnny, we were all a source of tiresome conflict not worth examining.
* * *
—
After Sally split, Robin called to tell me Randy had withdrawn more than ever. Dad talked about him at breakfast one morning and started crying. She’d never seen him cry before. He didn’t know what to do, he said.
When Randy didn’t show up at work for a couple of weeks, Dad drove to Silverado to see him. He talked about the situation at the office, reminding Randy that Hall and Foreman was carrying his health insurance; it couldn’t easily be reinstated if dropped. He tried to convey his concerns for Randy in a caring way, wanted him to know he understood what Randy was reaching for and would help support him if he knew what Randy wanted to do.
Randy indicated he was searching for a different direction in his life. He wanted to occupy himself with activities that didn’t give him such angry feelings. He told Dad he was proud of his writing and pleased to have taken up creating a series of collages.
And that was it. A month went by and Randy didn’t come back. Dad was still waiting for his call. Mom didn’t hear from him, either. It was as if he had dropped out of sight, like a missing person.
It could be said that Randy’s passivity for such a long time, exacerbated by too much fear, had caused permanent anger. Now he’d finally done something about it; he’d made his position clear.
Fifty-six-year-old Dorothy continued having faulty judgments about Randy’s future. The progression of her marriage stayed the same, in spite of endless pep talks to herself on paper that effectively took away responsibility for examining her anger. She kept up with her journals, scrapbooks, and photography, but they did not sustain her. I wonder when the concept of wishing took over more practical methods of dealing with envy, low self-esteem, comparison, and the resulting depressions, which were glossed over as Randy’s mental status declined. When all hell broke loose over Randy’s breaking up with Sally, and quitting his job in the midst of a breakdown, I worried about her. Why did she insist everything was going to get better? Her resolve to “think positive” without exploring the next step was numbing.
I guess her endless repetitive journal entries soothed her. “I’m still sending poems out for Randy, but things are slack. This will change.” “My photo work will start up with a bang.” “Randy’s work will be accepted by many publications.” “I’m on the track with Randy—his poems are getting acclaimed.” “Randy is making headway with his poetry—and even more will be coming.” “I have great green positive go thoughts for this year of 77. I honestly believe this goes for all of us. Me, Jack, Diane, Randy, Robin, and Dorrie. This means the responsibility of success, money, good feelings in ways physical, mental and spiritual.” “Randy got an accept from Rocky Mountain Review—2 poems ‘Salamander’ and ‘Alchemist.’ ” “Good news. Randy’s ‘Pervert’ was accepted by New Orleans Review.”
Meanwhile, back in New York, I’d earned enough money to move out of my rental and buy an apartment in the San Remo, overlooking Central Park West. But the truth is, I didn’t feel comfortable in my new shoes. I was lonely. Success was a confusing dream come true. 1976’s I Will…I Will…for Now had opened to a host of bad reviews, including Roger Ebert’s: “I don’t often look at my watch during a movie, but I found myself consulting it closely during ‘I Will…I Will…for Now.’ Could it be possible that this dreck still had an hour to go? The film moves at a leaden pace, interrupted only by its dead halts, and the actors stand around looking appalled at themselves after being forced to recite dialog like, ‘I still love that hard-nosed little dumpling.’ Diane Keaton is so painfully sincere, we’re not even sure some scenes are supposed to be funny. There will be worse movies this year, but probably none so stupefying.”
My response? I followed suit with Randy, making collages and writing until the next movie, whatever it might be. In 1977, my own journal was filled with short, depressing entries such as: “Art Linkletter’s daughter Diane jumped out a window to experience death’s calling.” “I carry a wallet full of evidence; a mouth brimming with lies. My face is open to deceit, deception and plain old…apathy.” “Woody has taken to buying cigarettes. He carries a pack in his pocket. He takes one out, flips it into his mouth with a false sense of bravado, and smokes without inhaling. He says it gives his hands something to do.”
With Mom’s approval, Dad came up with what he thought might be a solution for Randy’s broken marriage. He went out and bought a two-story town house on Tangerine Street in Irvine, in a gated community for swinging singles. When he handed Randy the key, including a brochure illustrating swinging single life at its best, Dad must have thought his gift would be the path to a new beginning for his son. In the colorful pamphlet, photographs illustrated young adults gathered by a pool, forming new relationships as they barbecued hamburgers in front of the community center. I can only imagine how insane it must have been for Randy. The promise of “Single Living at Its Best” in Irvine, a then bright new city in Orange County, gave Dad a sense of hope. Unfortunately, he hadn’t noticed the presence of El Toro Marine Base’s West Coast fighter squadrons flying over the rooftops of Tangerine Street. For Randy, it was as if he’d been thrust into his toddler past, filled with Lockheed T-33’s and F-104’s marking the skies of Bushnell Way Road. The sobbing little towheaded boy screaming for Mom had come back to haunt him.
Unaware that Tangerine Street was a destination that fit all of Randy’s prerequisites for failure, Jack Hall must have thought that securing Randy’s finances in a safe community would protect him from harm, while also giving him a chance to recover—a chance to come back to Hall and Foreman a new man, engaged in extracurricular activity with other young adults. But it was there, in that stucco two-story town house, that Randy permanently rid himself of a so-called life of normalcy, where he made his one and only permanent vow: to engage his life in the company of beer and vodka. He was twenty-seven years old.
CHAPTER 6
PRINTERS PULL
OFF A GOOD ONE
Gary Young went to high school with Randy. Later, he moved to Santa Cruz, where he became a professor at the University of California while also spearheading the Greenhouse Review Press. In 1977, he printed a little book of Randy’s poems called The Dreams of Mercurius. It even got reviewed by Stephen Kessler, who is the editor and publisher of The Redwood Review:
The Dreams of Mercurius, a book of a dozen tiny poems by southern California poet John Hall, is the latest and most interesting publication yet to emerge from the Greenhouse Review Press, worthy of attention not only for its content and its quality as a finely crafted object of the printer’s art but for its manifestation of a poetic alternative to the popular trend of more personal writing. In the Dreams of Mercurius there are subtle things going on, more fragile investigations of an alchemical nature, a delicate raid on the realm of transformation. The book’s first poem is called “Smoke.”
Incense fills the room
with peach blossoms.
Beneath a thousand petals
the moon slides down the window.
The opium is wet leaves and earth.
You fill your lungs
and mountains are crowned with glass.
The oriental depth and simplicity of this poem, the richly suggestive directness of its statement, drifts through the reader’s mind precisely like the smoke of its title. Peach blossoms, petals, moon, window, leaves and earth are fused in this final image, all a result of the smoke of its title and work like a drug to conjure a gently hallucinatory image: mountains “crowned with glass.” Such simple elements combining to disclose the curious interpenetration of interior and exterior worlds—the human body, the room, the sky, the moonlit mountains—are a marvelous example of a poem’s power to alter consciousness, to show us the secret relations of things, to give us a wholeness of perception not always available to our everyday awareness. The Dreams of Mercurius is a fine beginning.
