by Kim Newman
Imagine: Charles Hardin Holley meets Lucky Lindy, the Lone Eagle.
Only in America...
"If I think about all the time I wasted listening to speeches I just wanna break down and cry. No, I mean it. As a good little Pioneer, I reckon I listened to an average seven hours a week of speeches. More at
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summer camp. If I'd spent that seven hours practising the guitar I'd be Segovia. It's not as though these people were any good at making speeches. When I was studying for my public speaking badge, the manual said you should strive to convince an audience through logic and historical determinism—whatever the Sam Hill that is—rather than inflaming artificial passions. Passing through Tennessee years ago, I heard one of those black guys, a Baptist hedge-preacher. Strictly illegal back then. You could wind up in Alaska for hallelujahing a hellfire sermon. There was a guy who could make a speech. I went in there an atheist humanist and in half an hour I was looking behind me for a sheriff with horns waiting to drag my sinful soul to the Hot Place. Very nearly signed up to become a Baptist there and then. Wore off, though. Now, where were we? Yeah, speeches...
"First, Yandell made a speech welcoming the war heroes. He made lots of amusing references to 'flying forward for socialism' and was put out when only the Party juniors after his job even tried to laugh. Then Colonel Hall welcomed the war heroes. Then, plant director Hiram McGarrigle welcomed the war heroes. Then, union boss Bubby Cafferty, to everybody's surprise, welcomed the heroes. And Captain Rook, by way of a change, welcomed the heroes. It was obvious that welcoming the heroes was the keynote, and this went on until well into the afternoon. If any heroes ever got welcomed, the RFS were they. I'm sure McCarthy was cat-napping, but the rest of them sat there being awesome. Lindy just glowed. He was golden.
"The biplane was still parked a few yards away. With Howie safe, Jack was no longer interested in the reception. He told me later that he could think of about eighteen things to do with your lips that beat welcoming the heroes from here to sundown. He took a toolbag from the cockpit and was tinkering in a leisurely manner with the engine, scat-singing non-patriotic music to himself. A few disapproving looks got lobbed his way, but no one wanted to interrupt the speeches by telling him to clear out, so he was left to himself. Two and a half hours later when all the speeches were finished, Jack was still head-deep in his engine cowling.
"General LeMay made a mercifully brief address thanking the people of Roseville for their welcome—cue embarrassed smiles from Colonel Hall and company, and suppressed laughter, no doubt, among ideological backsliders out in the crowd—congratulating the workers on exceeding their targets and leaving it at that. The General promised that the RFS
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would have more to say at the award ceremony in the evening. "J ust so long," he croaked with a threatening grin, "as no one else tries to welcome the heroes..."
"The thing I remember about LeMay is his eyes. He was a hero, but I got the impression he was also crazy. Looking back, I realise the Pentagon must have given him the RFS to keep him out of the way. Douglas MacArthur and George S. Patton must have been enough for the Joint Chiefs of Staff. LeMay, who had some big hate thing going on with your Lord Mountbatten, still occasionally suggested that dropping the Big Hot One on the lousy limeys would be a good idea, and might maybe convince them to lay off our ideological brothers in Malaya. He called it preventative war!
"LeMay's address over, the good folk of Roseville let their hair down, at least as far as that was possible in Capone's America. The band played 'My Socialist Heart', which Sinatra had had a hit with that year. By the time they were a few bars in, the heroes were being mobbed by the crowd. Everyone wanted a piece of the famous fliers, to get an autograph, a lock of hair, or just to hear them say something. All the girls got in there, and most of the boys. The Echo's photographer was popping flashbulbs, and the heroes were posing with lucky kids. Pete Horowitz, pushed forwards by Rook, was snapped next to the Duke, and Melvin Yandell, Junior Hoodlum of the Decade, got to be pictured shaking hands with the Lone Eagle. Me, I was at the back, and kind of getting the idea that injustice was being done. Porky Rook was too busy with his protege and hadn't given the order to fall out, and when he finally remembered, there were far too many folk around the heroes for me to hope to get close. But I figured they'd be there all weekend, so I'd get my chance to kiss ass eventually.
"So I was hanging about on the edge of this huge crowd, craning my neck to see what was going on. A voice asks me if I know anything about aero-engines. Well, sure, of course I did. Next thing I know I'm helping Jack fix his engine. At first, I felt a bit embarrassed, because I didn't imagine it would go down well for a responsible little commie like me to be seen with a recidivist hooligan like Ti-Jack. After a while, though, it's okay, because it turned out I knew a lot more about planes than he did, and he seemed real impressed with the Texan kid. His fuel lead was leaking, and I patched it up neatly with first aid supplies. He introduced his plane to me as the H-l, more familiarly the Spruce Goose.
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"She's a wonderful babe," he said, "but she's a woman jus' the same, and fickle. She likes to show temperament sometimes, likes to dump me and Howie on the ground, make us crawl a little. You have to love her for it."
"I liked him at once, because he treated me as an adult. That's important when you're that age. More than anything else you wanna be grown up, but people still insist you're a kid. The other thing, the unique thing, was that he wasn't guarded. He said what he thought, while everyone else saw a Pioneer uniform and started doling out their words like pennies, worrying that you'd spot an Anti-Al sentiment and turn them in.
"Jack was shooting the breeze, talking about the Spruce Goose and Howie, their adventures flying across the country and back again. They made a subsistence living as freelance crop-sprayers and barnstormers, with Jack doing a side act as a singer and poet. Jack wasn't worried about his buddy being thrown in the slammer for the weekend. He would be getting three hots and a cot without paying a red cent, which put him well ahead of his usual game. Everything was a poem with Jack. Some of the stories he told me were lies, but they were true all the same. One of Jack's lies was worth an afternoon of Yandell's targets and incentives. One way or another, they just about managed to keep the show in the air, and —he said—he had got some great material for his book, his 'make-the-grade, paid-and-laid, break-for-great, beat-to-the-street book', which was sort of true and sort of not and was about these two characters called Sal and Dean who weren't really Jack and Howie, but then again might be, and their lives in the currents above the USSA. "I want to write a book like Gaillard plays jazz, like Van Gogh paints harvests, you dig?"
"Now, part of young Charlie was finding it profoundly shocking that this kind of thing could possibly happen in a well-ordered socialist society. But another part was listening to the music. Another part of me was being seduced. I dug.
"After a while, I dug the most."
The afternoon's parade passed off without incident, but Charlie was still smarting. Again, Captain Rook gave the lead to Pete Horowitz's section. The Pioneers led the parade, symbolising the Great Socialist Hope of the nation's future. Charlie wondered if his rival was given preference because Rook had seen him consorting with Hooligan Jack. The Captain spoke of revisionism as if it were a communicable disease.
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The Pioneer Lodge had posters up, warning the true socialist to Watch Your Neighbours.
In an empty field, a number of tents and a small stage had been erected. The formation broke, and Pioneers scattered in an orderly manner, heading for their families. Charlie found his parents and Peggy Sue's family by the lemonade stall. An ox was being roasted over a fire, a stocky chef from Fort Baxter sprinkling the revolving carcass with herbs and sauces. Charlie had never seen so much meat in one place before.
"Look
s like some folks will be getting a good feed this evening," said his Mom, a little too loud. "Hero fliers and party officials, at least."
Dad gave him a glass of lemonade, which he got down in a gulp. It had been a long march in the sun.
Peggy Sue wore a pink-tinged white dress, and looked almost as pretty as Patsy, if a sight skinnier. Charlie saluted her, and she giggled like a six-year-old.
The chef got his hand too near the flame. He went "ooh ooh ooh" and hopped around while his base buddies laughed.
Osgood Yandell mounted the stage and, in a folksy voice Mom always said was "as phoney as a his wife's hair colour", asked for everyone to give the heroes a big hand. It was time for the year's awards. But first, everyone knew, there were more speeches.
First up was General LeMay. He did a familiar number about everyone all over the country pulling together in this time of crisis, increasing their production and striving to have more children to make the future secure for socialism. He called forward plant managers and union officials to congratulate them on the overrun. Each of the "heroes of tractor production" was given a small plaque.
"Funny how all them heroes just happen to be Kansas-born," said Peggy Sue's Dad. "Not a Texan among them."
Charlie's Dad shrugged and said they had no room for a plaque anyway.
"Nonsense," said Mom, "we could use it to plug up one of the holes in the wall that lets the wind in. What with all these heroes in town, I reckon there's going to be a lot more wind."
Next up was Duke Morrison, a big man who, according to the Party papers, embodied the virtues of the American worker. He told a thrilling story about how a buddy had died at Iwo Jima to save the rest of his platoon. His dying words had been "hell, Duke, I know any of the guys would have done exactly the same." This, Morrison explained, "embodied the socialist spirit in the hearts of the people of America." There was
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massive but vaguely mechanical applause. It was the first remotely exciting thing that anyone had said all day. Morrison called forward factory workers who had been commended by their managers for working especially hard that year, for showing good examples to their comrades. Each man came forward, cheered by family and friends, to shake Morrison's hand and be awarded the Hero of Socialist Labour medal.
"More Kansans," said Peggy Sue's Dad, who had lost an eye fighting Villa.
"Hi Charlie-cat," said a voice behind him. "Have I missed any major gris-gris? Oh, unprecedented! They're roasting a whole ox! Man, that smells beat! What chance do you think we hungry cats have of getting our feed-forks into that? I'd be grateful for a plateful."
"With every Party official in the state of Kansas here tonight," said Mom, "we'll be lucky to get a lick of one of the bones."
Jack laughed. Charlie reddened at the disrespectful crack, and hoped nobody outside the group of Texans had heard his mother.
Morrison left the stage to enthusiastic cheers, and McCarthy took his place. The Major grabbed the microphone off the stand, and it squealed feedback. He broke all the rules of socialist reasoning, launching into a fire-and-brimstone tirade about how the country was "in danger of being brought sobbing to its knees by the cancers of counter-revolution, capitalist subversion, foreign fifth-columnists and moral degeneracy." McCarthy was sweating, and the audience didn't know what to make of his shouting. Even his fellow heroes were trying not to look at him.
"It's the duty of every loyal American," he said, "to root out cap subversion wherever it rears its hideous, verminous head. On the farm, in the workplace, and, yes, even in your own family. It starts quiet. Maybe some schoolteacher wants to hold a meeting to yak about the problems of the community. Then, after your closet cap pal has started you thinking that maybe there are problems in the community, the hard stuff starts creepin' in, and you hear talk about maybe havin' elections, or questionin' the Party Line, or sayin' bad stuff about Comrade Capone. And it gets worse. Once cap subversion has set in, it's harder to get rid of than headlice. Remember, your ole grand-mamma could be a filthy cap, or maybe your General Store-keeper, the man next to you on the assembly line...Caps are everywhere, eatin' away the foundations of society."
He pulled a grimy piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. "I got me here a list off sixty-eight card-carrying caps in the Kansas Party Machine,
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legislature and Socialist Guard, and believe me, comrades, these rats are gonna regret the day they tried to cross Bomber Joe!"
He waved his list. There was a stunned silence from the crowd for a full ten seconds. Charlie heard Jack let out a low, admiring whistle. Then people applauded. Charlie couldn't understand it. The Major was obviously combat-shocked. People were applauding louder, spontaneously, energetically. He looked around. His own parents were clapping, and Peggy Sue's Dad was whistling as if the home team were celebrating a touchdown.
"Clap," Mom told him, "if you know what's good for you, clap..."
Charlie listlessly flapped his hands together, and McCarthy revelled in the acclaim. Jack was the only person not joining in. The poet shrugged and smiled. Charlie wondered if Jack's name were on any lists.
"Applause," Jack said, "applesauce..."
The applause continued as Lindbergh took the stage. In quiet, measured tones he endorsed the Capone's policy of isolationism. America, he said, could produce everything it needed without getting involved with other countries. He was plainly remembering by rote something someone else had written for him. He finished his brief speech by announcing more awards. Three townswomen who had borne more than five children were invited forward to receive Heroine of Socialist Motherhood medals.
Charlie knew what was coming next.
"And now, one of the most important awards any community can bestow," said the Lone Eagle, "the Young America medal for this year's most conscientious member of the Pioneers."
Charlie checked that his bandanna was tied properly, and his pants creases were aligned to the front. He knew he would win the Young America. Nobody had won more badges than him, and his section always scored the highest in the Socialist Debates.
"And the winner is..."
To receive the medal from Colonel Lindbergh himself, to shake the great man's hand...
"Section Leader Peter Horowitz."
Pete Horowitz went forward to climb up on to the stage, accompanied by applause. Charlie looked over and saw Captain Rook clapping, broad smile on his puffy face. Horowitz threw a ragged parody of a salute and accepted his medal.
"Well how do you like that!"
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"What's the bring-down?" asked Jack.
"You tell me! You saw the parade this afternoon. Now tell me, Pioneer for Pioneer, badge for badge, section for section, who's the better man? Me or that sloppy, lame-assed, worthless Kansas goldbrick who's just shook hands with Colonel Lindbergh?"
"Diable, Charlie-cat, that's easy. I bet the brown-eyed handsome boy wouldn't know one end of an engine from another."
"Pete Horowitz's section would come third in the Circle Jerk. So how come he wins the goddamn medal, huh? I just don't understand it."
"Who decides who gets the medals?"
"Captain Comrade Rook."
"Uh-huh. That him over there? The fat cat in the army slouch hat and shorts, clapping and sweating?"
"Yeah. The bastard. What's he got against me?"
"I don't imagine he's got anything against you, Charlie-cat. It's what he's got for Pretty Petey."
"What are you talking about?" asked Charlie.
"I guess," said Jack quietly, "Captain Comrade Rook is victim of a particular variety of sexual incontinence."
"He's always talking about sexual incontinence. He wouldn't..."
"I didn't say he's done anything, the poor cold and old sister-sap, nor that he'd necessarily try anything. All I'm saying is that such thoughts prey upon him in his secret nights. He has the hots for the guy; in spades, but bad. Nothing amis
s with that, Charlie-cat, so long as nobody gets hurt."
"Well I've ended up getting hurt. This isn't fair."
Charlie's eyes stung. Pioneers weren't supposed to feel hurt. Peggy Sue had walked over. If she had overheard, it would make it worse.
"Hi Charlie," she said brightly, "tough luck about not getting the medal. If you want my opinion, you should have got it. And everyone in town would agree with me..."
"Except that Horowitz cat," said Jack.
Charlie was relieved by the opportunity to change the subject and introduced the girl next door.
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kerouac," said Peggy Sue, "though I'm not sure I want to meet your partner after what he did to my sister."
"Yeah, well, I'm sorry about that, chicklet. I guess Howie doesn't always have the right etiquette for every social situation. He gets a little bit wigged-out sometimes, and goes uncool. Accept my sincerest..."
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Peggy Sue warmed to Jack at once, and fluttered her eyelashes. Charlie didn't know how he felt about that.
Lieutenant Hubbard had taken the stage to make his speech, clearly the worse for something. Fruit punch and cider were not covered by the Prohibition Laws. Hubbard had a broad smile and a benign, avuncular manner and was talking about the duty of everyone to get married and have healthy communist children to keep America strong. He called forward a dozen couples who had announced their engagement in the last year. Each received a salute of solidarity from Hubbard and a radio for when they set up home. He made gruff jokes Charlie didn't quite get which usually made the prospective groom laugh uneasily while his fiancee blushed.
