by Jim Miller
When I got to the airport, I grabbed my boarding pass at the ticketing kiosk and was dismayed to find a long security check line. In line, I was struck by the dramatic contrast between the generic, antiseptic yet paranoid space of the airport and the dark, dusty antique chaos of Pete’s house. When I got to the TSA agent, I showed him my boarding pass and ID, took off my shoes, and put them along with my backpack on the conveyor belt to be screened. I’d thrown away my tiny toothpaste, but I was suddenly panicked that they’d try to take the vial of ashes. On my way through the metal detector, I tried to show an external calm while I kept my eyes locked on my stuff. To my great relief, my tiny piece of Joe Hill snuck past Homeland Security unmolested, or so I thought, until the guard at the x-ray machine pointed at my backpack just as I was retrieving my shoes from the conveyor belt. Another screener grabbed my pack, unzipped it, and went straight for the little brown vial. After they took it out and looked it over, another guard came up behind me.
“Sir, please come with me,” he said in a disconcertingly neutral tone. I noticed that the passengers in line were gawking at me as I followed the guard to secondary, which pissed me off.
“Please sit down, sir,” the guard said. I did, struggling to control my tongue all the while.
“What is this about?” I asked as calmly as I could. “I’m going to miss my flight if you keep me here much longer.” He ignored my question and asked me to stand and hold my arms out at my sides while he brushed yet another metal detector across my torso and up and down my legs. I had still not been able to put my shoes back on, so I offered to take my socks off so they could smell them.
“That won’t be necessary, sir,” the guard replied unfazed. He was a forgettable-looking fellow with short brown hair and a bland, tired expression.
“You can sit down now, sir.”
Another guard, a stocky fellow with a pit bull face under a crew cut came out and motioned the other guard away.
“Are you carrying any illegal drugs with you, sir?” he barked.
“No. Is this about the vial?” I asked, unable to conceal a smirk.
“We’re examining the contents, now,” he continued brusquely. “You may as well tell the truth.”
“Believe it or not, it’s a bit of Joe Hill’s ashes,” I blurted out.
“That doesn’t mean anything to me, sir,” he said, without a hint of emotion. I paused, remembering that the Transportation Security Administration had been created as an explicitly non-union entity by the Bush Administration—all in the name of our safety, of course. Hence, this pit bull wouldn’t know Joe Hill from a hill of beans.
“He was my grandfather,” I lied. “He used to play football for the San Francisco 49ers back in the day, as a matter of fact. The family scattered most of his ashes at the old Kezar stadium, but we all kept a little bit of him for ourselves to remember Grandpa.” This seemed to lighten him up a bit. He disappeared into the room where they had taken my backpack and were presumably examining Joe Hill with some high tech gadget. I doubted, however, that they could determine family lineage in the airport, so I was confident that my secret was safe. When he came back out, he was carrying a piece of paper with him. He handed it to me and told me it would be just a minute. I took a look at the paper with the US Department of Homeland Security seal, complete with the eagle, stamped on the top:Transporting the Deceased
Traveling with Crematory Remains
We understand how painful losing a loved one is, and we respect anyone traveling with crematory remains. Passengers are allowed to carry a crematory container as part of their carry-on luggage, but the container must pass through the X-ray machine. If the container is made of material that generates an opaque image and prevents the security screener from clearly being able to see what is inside, then the container cannot be allowed through the security checkpoint.
Out of respect to the deceased and their family and friends, under no circumstances will a screener open the container even if the passenger requests this be done. Documentation from the funeral home is not sufficient to carry a container through security and onto a plane without screening.
You may transport the urn as checked baggage provided that it is successfully screened. We will screen the urn for explosive materials /devices using a variety of techniques; if cleared, it will be permitted as checked baggage only.
Crematory containers are made from many different types of materials, all with varying thickness. At present, we cannot state for certain whether your particular crematory container can successfully pass through an X-ray machine. However, we suggest that you purchase a temporary or permanent crematory container made of lighter weight material such as wood or plastic that can be successfully X-rayed. We will continue to work with funeral home associations to provide additional guidance in the future.
When I was finished, I shook my head in disbelief. It was utterly surreal, I thought. Finally, another guard came out and explained that the brown glass was somewhat opaque and that had made it difficult for the screener to determine the contents, since I had not disclosed that I was carrying crematory remains. Then he handed me back my carry on.
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” he said, not particularly convincingly. “You’re free to go.” I was tempted to tell them they had just liberated an enemy of the state, but I said nothing, put my backpack under my arm, and ran to the gate just in time to catch my plane. I was the last one on and had to sit in the back, which was fine because I wanted to be alone to read my newfound treasures.
I buckled up and ignored the obligatory safety instructions. If we crash, we’ll all die, I thought. On that bright little note, I opened the bundle of letters. As with the photo I’d seen at Pete’s place, these old letters were well preserved, but fragile. The first one was from Gus Blanco sent from Everett, Washington to Bobby care of I.W.W. Headquarters in Los Angeles. It was post-marked November 1st, 1916:Dear Bobby,
I just heard word from a comrade here in Everett that you survived the business in San Diego. My heart is filled with joy on the news, dear brother, as I had long feared you dead. Here in Everett, the situation is dire, but courage has not deserted us. If we could get out of Mexico in one piece and slip the noose in Holtville, why not dodge the vigilantes here in Everett? Remember what we said back in Coyote Well: “Better their horses under our asses than our asses in their noose”? This time, I’ll not go down without a fight either brother. If you hear of me no longer, remember me to the future, my friend. If we make it out alive, we’ll raise a glass to the One Big Union.
In Solidarity, Gus
So Blanco did get word that Flash had survived! And this was his last letter before he was killed—amazing. Bobby had kept it with him to the end, and told his story to the future. Here I was on an airplane flying over San Francisco Bay with it in my hands. I looked out the window at the city fading into the distance behind us and picked up another letter. This one was from Molly O’Conner, it was written in the late teens as well:Dearest Bobby,
I received your letter and it filled me with fondness for the time we have spent together, but I also fear I may displease you, my love. I too remember your tender caresses that day in Llano. I too remember the music in the distance and the beauty of the trees moving gently in the breeze and vast blue sky above. I too was moved deeply by our moment together and hold it as a most precious part of my life. I do most surely love you as you love me… but my love cannot belong to one man alone as my love belongs to the world. When I say to you that no man can own me, it does not mean that I love no man or that your affections are not held dearly. It only means that I do not believe in marriage, a property contract that has kept women in bondage for ages. Surely, my love, you can see the difference between love and a legal contract. We are both involved in a struggle larger than ourselves and have given ourselves to it, heart and soul. It is to this that we owe our full selves more than anything else. So, no, Bobby, I cannot marry you. You will be welcomed back to my loving arms any time our
paths may cross, and know in your heart that you have my love, even if you cannot possess me. I think of you every day with great affection and shall never forget you. Please do not hold any bitterness toward me—I could not bear it. Carry me with you in your heart forever, a comrade and lover.
With most tender love, Molly
So this was a response from Bobby’s one great love, Molly O’Conner, my great grandmother if my suspicions proved true. I was struck by the mixture of formal language and longing. Abstract politics and regret perhaps, or fierce independence, or maybe both. Who could know? And how did this leave Bobby? Heartbroken? Humbled? Full of bitterness? Or did he respect her choice? In his interview, he didn’t show anything but a kind of distant affection for a lost past. I looked out the window again and noticed that we’d gone above the clouds. I picked up another letter from Molly:
Dearest Bobby,
I write you with good news. Since the time of your last visit I have discovered that I am with child. I ask nothing of you. I find myself unexpectedly joyous at the news, however, and am making plans for the child’s birth and infancy. I shall continue my teaching and political work, of course, and what could be more revolutionary than sowing the seeds of the future? If it is a girl I think Emma would be a fine name. If it is a boy, I would prefer Herman. What think you, my love? Please let me know.
With most tender love, Molly
How would Bobby have taken that letter? I stared out at the clouds in wonder. The pilot announced that the plane had reached cruising altitude and we could take off our seat belts. I looked through the stack for another letter from Molly and there were none. What I did see was a handful of envelopes with her handwriting on them from Herman Wilson. The first one was a small child’s drawing of a stick figure with a smiley face. At the bottom, in Molly’s handwriting, it said. “To Papa. Love, Herman.” There were two more letters like that separated by six months and then a year. Then, in the early twenties, the handwriting changed to that of a small child. It was a crude drawing of a baseball player with “To my Papa, the ball player, Love Herman” written at the bottom. Under that envelope there was one more in a young man’s hand from the forties. It was from Herman:Dear Father,
I know it has been a long time since you have heard from me. I am writing to let you know that I have joined the Army and will be shipping out in a few days. While I understand and respect your objections to war and the military, we both know that this is a war against Fascism. It is a fight we must not lose. I cannot in good conscience ignore the call to arms. If anything happens to me, know that I went to my death with honor and with great love for you in my heart. Though we have not been able to spend much time together, I have always held your communication with me dear and hold you in great regard.
Your Son, Herman
And that was it—the whole written record of Bobby’s most intimate relationships, in a few fragile letters. What fascinated me were the gaps in communications. Had Bobby thrown some letters away in anger or grief? How did he learn of Herman’s death in the war? What became of Molly after Llano? Perhaps the diary would answer some of these questions. I figured I had another forty minutes at least, so I moved on to it, a worn, black, leather-bound thing with a few pages ripped out in the beginning. I skimmed through the book and was dismayed that the pages weren’t dated, but the first entry gave me a clue: “I did not have a drink today.” I read a few more entries and noted that a lot of them started the same way. Some were simply that one declarative sentence and others were filled with fits of self-loathing. “My entire life has been a waste,” read one. “Not a soul on the earth will mourn my passing,” read another. It was grim stuff. This must have been written during the days just after Bobby had stopped drinking and begun to get his life back together. It was probably during the fifties or early sixties, but there were no references to the outside world, no dates. One page was entitled “Regrets” and had the following list:Never stuck with a woman
Never tried to find Patricia
Never finding out if rumors of a son by her were true
Losing track of Molly
Missing Molly’s funeral
Never being a proper father to Herman
Missing Herman’s funeral
Never seeing grandson
Losing Gus’s letters
Relapse after relapse
Being too weak
Being a fool
Stooping to begging
Stealing from a brother
Losing my self respect
This heartbreaking entry was followed by another one with more self-loathing, and the line, “I am a bum like they used to say to us. I am a bum, a nothing. No one will miss me when I’m gone.” Here I noted a few more ripped pages and then the tone changed:Moment of insight today. I began the meeting with the usual belly-aching and then I moved on to talking about how we Wobblies never won anything and only got our teeth kicked in, again and again, and Montana interrupted and said, “Being alive is winning.” This stopped me cold and I sat up and thought, he’s right, they never killed me, as hard as they tried. I began to weep at this thought. And he says, “Remember how they always told us we were bums, well, we ain’t bums. Being proud to be alive is being a man. You are a man Bobby, a remarkable man. How many fellas have done what you’ve done? Who has shown the kind of bravery you’ve shown? When you fall down, you get up. Get up, brother!” At this we embraced and something changed inside of me. I felt myself coming back. Being alive is winning.
This was followed by a bunch of blank pages and then another entry without any of the stuff about drinking or meetings:I have begun speaking to a young fellow about my life. He is putting together a history. Montana has gotten together a number of us and we are serving as what he calls, “a living history.” Also spoke to Montana about some personal matters. He is going to help me find my grandson. Montana says this will help me come full circle. It can be a form of personal redemption just as the interviews are a kind of social redemption. I can give myself to others as a way to find myself again. Have begun reading a lot. The job in the store gives me the time and a full library.
More blank pages after this, some with pen marks and doodles, but no entries. Then another brief one:I have begun speaking at union halls on I.W.W. history. Montana calls it “planting seeds.” Here’s to hoping they keep growing when we’re gone. We have found my grandson’s address, which fills me with great joy. Now, the letter!
So this was how he found my father! I was almost certain of it now. I looked ahead eagerly for something about their meeting and there was nothing but blank pages, with a few more ripped out. Finally, in the middle of the empty pages, I found something, but it wasn’t about my Dad:Went to the doctor today and found out that I’m going to die. I AM GOING TO DIE. Well, there it is, in bold on the page. What have I done with this life? If I had had to answer that question a while back, I wouldn’t have had much good to say, but now, I feel I’ve done a little something, planted a seed or two. I only regret having not gotten to spend more than a few visits with my grandson, but I’m grateful to have found him. Now, one last letter.
To the future, Bobby Flash
Strangely, a tear fell down my face as I leafed through the diary for more, but that was the final entry. I noticed that the man across the aisle was staring at me so I turned my face toward the window to gaze at the topography below. The pilot told us we were beginning our descent. I could have cared less.
10
On Monday I got into the office early, eager to talk to Neville and pitch my Bobby Flash story again. When I got there, Neville wasn’t in but I did see our music writer and a group of freelancers huddling around a desk in the back of the office. I could tell by their mood that the news wasn’t good, and I quickly found out that several of their paychecks had bounced and that Neville had been MIA all weekend. This gave me a sick feeling, but I stupidly said, “Neville’s always been up front with me. I’m sure this is just some kind of mix-up.” That got a collecti
ve sneer so I walked back over to my desk and found a note from Neville. He wanted me to cover a big protest at City Hall today. I grabbed my satchel and took off, leaving the gossiping writers to mull our impending doom. Perhaps it was my enthusiasm about my Bobby Flash discovery that did it, but I still wanted to give Neville the benefit of the doubt. He had always been straight with me and I didn’t want to believe he could be getting close to going bust without letting us know.
When I got to City Hall, I could tell something big was going down. There were hundreds of picketers out in front of the building, chanting and yelling slogans over megaphones. One of the first things that caught my attention was a huge caricature of Frank Antonelli, the most conservative member of the City Council who’d made it his business to go after all the city workers. He’d been a vocal right-wing agitator for years before he ran for office. He directed a think tank called the Efficiency Roundtable, and his reports all had catchy names like “Pigs at the Trough: The Public Sector Union Bosses’ Assault on Taxpayers.” He was loved by the editorial board of the Imperial Sun and loathed by local unions. Antonelli had endeared himself to the local gay community by splitting with the Republican Party and supporting gay marriage, but many thought the move was a Machiavellian maneuver to split the progressive community on the eve of the outsourcing vote. He’d also infuriated local environmentalists by proposing that the city end its recycling program or at least outsource it. Antonelli’s biggest support base came from the local Chamber of Commerce, which loved his unyielding opposition to all taxes. Hence, it was not much of a surprise that he’d been investigated for tax evasion. His brand of libertarianism was a variety of corporate anarchism—opposed to the very notion of government itself. He was contemptuous of public sector workers and considered them to be a species of life somewhere near the bottom of the food chain. Anybody who couldn’t or didn’t want to sell themselves on the market was suspect—a parasite in his view. Antonelli presented himself as a kind of reformer though, not the zealot he actually was. Much to the evil delight of his adversaries, he looked like a wet rat with bad hair plugs. When he smiled, it was impossible for him to conceal a kind of gleeful disdain. It just oozed out of him.
