This is Me, Jack Vance

by Jack Vance

  When the Mission Dolores pulled into Long Beach, a coast guard ship came alongside and one of the midshipmen shouted, “Have you caught that villain who made that still yet?” I sweated new trickles of blood.

  We docked, and soon enough the coast guard officers came aboard. They took the still, examined it carefully, and to preserve any potential fingerprints sealed it into the bonded locker. During the evening the captain had some friends aboard for a party. After a few drinks, the captain decided to show his friends what scoundrels he had aboard. He broke into the bonded locker and displayed the still. In the morning the coast guard returned aboard, and were astounded to find that someone had broken into the bonded locker. This was a grave offense. As for the still, it could no longer serve as evidence, since it had been much handled. So instead of catching the culprit, they excoriated the captain for the more serious offense of breaking into the bonded locker.

  An hour later we were paid off and went ashore. I felt as if I had died and gone to heaven, and I resolved never again to become a criminal: a pledge which I have naturally honored in every respect.

  I shipped out again twice, then decided that I had had enough of the sea and came ashore.

  Chapter 5

  Darkling: A Threnody

  by L. Bassington Mulliner

  Black branches,

  Like a corpse’s withered hands,

  Waving against the blacker sky:

  Chill winds,

  Bitter like the tang of half-remembered sins;

  Bats wheeling mournfully through the air,

  And on the ground

  Worms,

  Toads,

  Frogs,

  And nameless creeping things;

  And all around

  Desolation,

  Doom,

  Dyspepsia,

  And Despair.

  I am a bat that wheels through the air of Fate;

  I am a worm that wriggles in a swamp of Disillusionment;

  I am a despairing toad;

  I have got dyspepsia.

  P. G. Wodehouse

  My mother now worked at Montgomery Ward in the foreign mail-order department. She was diligent, conscientious, and had built up what could be called a clientele, especially with missionaries in the Far East. Her salary was adequate, and with what I sent her she was now living quite comfortably.

  With nowhere else to go, I moved in with her, at least temporarily. I was still solvent with funds from my last payoff, and now devoted myself to writing, trying to making a living wage doing so, but without notable success. I realized that my funds would soon run low and that I would need to find some sort of day employment which would allow me to write at night.

  One day I ran into Sam Wainwright who, it may be remembered, was the organizer of the Thumbwagger exploits. Sam was as frisky and bright-eyed as ever, and he told me that he had become a carpenter’s apprentice, work which paid reasonably well and which would in due course allow him to become a journeyman carpenter. The only disadvantage was that he had to go to school for four years in order to learn the trade. Still, he said, it wasn’t so bad, and if I liked, he would take me to the union hall and introduce me to the qualifying officer.

  The union officer, who apparently took his job casually, asked me three questions.

  “What’s the size of a sawhorse?”

  I said well, it was about like this, like that.

  He said, “Okay…Why are studs placed at sixteen-inch centers?”

  This I knew. “That’s so that the sheet of four-foot plywood will fit the studs correctly.”

  “Correct.”

  The third question I forget, but it might have been something like “Which end of a nail goes in first, the sharp end or the flat end?” I replied that I thought it was most likely the sharp end.

  “All right. Sign here.”

  He gave me some papers, and I learned that now, by dint of my command of the subject, I had been signed on as a journeyman carpenter, bypassing the whole apprentice program. I made no complaint, and went out in the corridor where Sam asked me how I’d made out, and whether I had passed the apprentice test. I said, “Yes indeed. In fact, I’ve qualified as a journeyman.” Sam’s congratulations were sparse.

  On my first job as a carpenter I lasted two hours before I was fired. On my second I lasted until noon. On my third I lasted all day, and thereafter I managed to hold on to the jobs. In time I became a competent rough carpenter. It was only later, after teaming up with various German and Scandinavian craftsmen, that I learned the elements of finish carpentry. This is interesting and often delicate work, at times requiring the skills of a surgeon, but rewarding for anyone who can cut the mustard.

  On one job, my presence on the premises was required only to satisfy some legal restriction, and I had nothing to do except wander here and there about the property. One day I approached the back fence and looked over, and saw a very pretty girl sitting on the porch of a house petting a cat. She seemed happy and gentle and playful, and I could not help but wonder if she might be induced to play with me. To make a long story short, I found that her name was Norma, and that she was happy to know me, and in due course we were married.

  At first we stayed with my mother on Ellsworth Street. My mother had been going to night school, where of all things she had been learning the essentials of pottery. One night, just for fun, Norma and I joined her at her class. We got our hands into the clay, and after that there was no looking back. We joined the class, and produced a few odds and ends—dishes, ashtrays, one thing or another—and we were so pleased with the results that we set off upon what I now perceive to be a totally idiotic project, namely “Ceramic Center”. This was a shop on College Avenue where we sold clay, glazes, plaster-of-Paris, and slip, which is liquefied clay. I built a kiln and we did firings for our customers. One of our friends, Dave Miller, contrived a beautiful sign for us, but the shop became more of a social hub than a profit-making enterprise. One night I was playing a jazz record and in walked Bob Mielke, the great jazz trombonist, and this is where I first met him.

  We found a pair of partners, Jim and Mary Walsh, who conducted classes. But still our expenses far exceeded our income, and so finally we turned the shop over to the Walshes and set off on our first trip to Europe. Such was our acquaintance with the art of ceramics, and in retrospect I see how foolish we, a couple of tyros, had been to think we were qualified to run such a business.

  Norma was strongly supportive of my writing from the start, and we began to work together as a team. I cannot emphasize enough how hard Norma worked over the course of my career—certainly as hard as I have, if not more. In these early days, however, the writing wasn’t enough to support us, and I continued to work day jobs.

  On one such job at Berkeley High School, I encountered a laborer named Red Sears who, using a cynical and sardonic appraisal, took me for a live one. We got to talking boats. He told me of the Snoop, a fine traditional wooden-hulled cutter. He stated that the owner would listen to any reasonable offer. Red would take me to inspect the Snoop anytime I so wished.

  I accepted, and after work Red took me down Dwight Way to a vacant lot, where I saw the Snoop. It was a hulk about twenty-eight feet long and obviously the last stages of decrepitude. I turned upon Red in disgust and asked him where was the boat which he had described. He had the grace to look off into the sky.

  Nevertheless, Red introduced me to the boat’s owner, Tom Hand, who with his wife Joanna lived in a house nearby. They were a rather bohemian pair, and I took to them; in time I brought Norma to meet them, and we became a congenial group.

  Six months later the Hands decided to move north to Mendocino. Norma and I had been living with my mother, but in rather cramped conditions, so we were happy to rent the house which the Hands had just vacated.

  I can’t remember what became of the Snoop. I suppose it must have been hauled away at some point. We used the vacant area for a vegetable garden.

  Norma and I acquired
two cats, Pete and Joe. We also acquired a magnificent Packard sedan in perfect condition.

  At the house on Dwight Way we hosted many parties and sometimes jam sessions. At one these sessions we met Al Hall, an excellent guitar player, who subsequently joined us in many exploits. We are still in contact with Al, even though he too now lives in Mendocino. One of Al Hall’s business ventures was the creation and sale of compost. For this purpose he used redwood sawdust and fish guts, which he obtained from a cannery. In his front yard there were two impressive mounds of the ripening compost, which attracted swarms of flies beyond belief. Al also kept chickens, which dined on the maggots, and once he served Norma and I scrambled eggs for breakfast. I found that I could not eat these eggs, knowing that they were the product of chickens nurtured on maggots. When the compost was ripe, Al packed it in sacks, which were labeled “Al’s Best”, with Al’s likeness in profile below.

  Norma’s parents lived in Colton in southern California, and whenever opportunity offered we would drive down and spend time with them. On one occasion I had an experiment in mind. I was selling stories on a more or less regular basis, but the returns were not astronomical, and I thought to improve the situation by becoming a “million-word-a-year man”. I knocked out two stories in two days, the first of the Magnus Ridolph set. I sent the first drafts, without revision, to my agent Scott Meredith in New York. He sold them at once with no apparent difficulty. So much for the experiment. I was moderately pleased with this sudden gush of productivity, but I realized that in the long haul my temperament was not suited to this method of writing. I returned to my old system, which meant first draft, second draft; and if I were lucky I would find this second draft acceptable.

  Just then, I received startling news from my agent. 20th Century Fox had picked up one of these stories, “Hard Luck Diggings”, for compensation which at the time seemed phenomenal. Furthermore they invited me to write a treatment and possibly a screenplay at an inordinate weekly salary, if I would report to Hollywood at once.

  Norma and I jumped in the Packard and drove south. We presented ourselves to 20th Century Fox, where we were introduced to Julian Blaustein, the producer. I was installed in an office with my name on the door in gold, a secretary, and told to get to work.

  We rented a spacious house with a swimming pool in Coldwater Canyon. Every morning I drove to my office at Fox and tried to produce the kind of material which Blaustein expected of me. In truth I found this sort of work unfamiliar and not particularly agreeable. For one thing, the money, while gratifying at first, frightened me a little: I did not want to become dependent upon sucking at this golden tit.

  Luckily, my fears came to naught. Julian Blaustein was promoted to become an executive producer, and all his projects were shelved. I was told, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.” The golden letters of my name were scraped from the door, my secretary bade me farewell, and everything else was restored to as before I had arrived. Without overmuch regret I took my leave of Fox Studios.

  With the money we had accumulated during this stint in Hollywood, Norma and I embarked on our first trip abroad. We left our Packard parked under a pepper tree at my father-in-law’s house in Colton, covered with a tarpaulin to protect it against the weather, bird droppings and other such depredations, and consigned it to the care of Norma’s father. He undertook to guard it against recreational use by Norma’s brothers, who were notably irresponsible. Norma’s father guaranteed to exercise full vigilance in this regard, and we were reassured.

  We made our way to the east coast, and at New York boarded a ship of Dutch registry. After a pleasant voyage across the Atlantic we disembarked at Southampton, England. Here we bought two bicycles, convinced that the most romantic and charming way of visiting the English countryside was aboard a bicycle seat. I can now state that under certain circumstances this is undoubtedly true; under others…not so true. However, I must remark that all during the time we were pedalling along the English lanes, we encountered nothing but sunshine, nary a drop of rain, which considering the dire reputation of the English climate seemed almost an act of divine providence.

  As we traveled, we became aware of two curious facts. The first concerned food. A common vegetable served with lunch at cafés was cauliflower, usually boiled or perhaps steamed. Almost more often than not, we discovered among the stalks a plump white worm of such color and appearance so as to be hardly distinguishable from the vegetable itself. These garnishes were inconspicuous unless one examined the dish quite carefully. We often speculated as to how many inattentive customers had consumed one or more of these worms.

  The other fact that came to our attention had to do with innkeeping practices. We usually spent spent our nights at bed-and-breakfast establishments, where we discovered that certain landladies changed their bedsheets only after every third or fourth guest. It became our habit that when we were first shown to a room, we immediately examined the bed; if we found that the sheets were not fresh, we quit the premises on the instant, without regard for the outcries of the landlady.

  This was the late 1940s, and prices in England were comfortably low. The lowest for a night’s lodging might be 7s/6d*, but more commonly the going rate would be 10s, and occasionally 10s/6d, which still amounted to approximately $2 or $3. Breakfasts were usually sufficient to send the bicyclist along his way well fortified, consisting of corn flakes, bacon and eggs, bread fried in the bacon fat, and fried tomatoes.

  We traveled to Winchester in Hampshire, then west through the New Forest before turning north into Wiltshire. Arriving at the town of Marlboro, we discovered that all accommodations were occupied owing to a convention, and we were obliged to ride twenty miles further along, up hill and down dale, to the town of Pewsey, where we were gratified to find comfortable lodgings.

  The next day we rode out across Salisbury Plain. Toward the end of the afternoon we noticed some odd structures protruding over a nearby ridge, and gaining the top we looked down upon Stonehenge. Of all the routes by which one can approach Stonehenge, I consider the most dramatic of all. There was nobody at hand, and we explored the premises alone. That evening we lodged at a country inn nearby, and in the morning set off to the north, ultimately to arrive at Oxford.

  We spent a day or so exploring the quadrangles of this old city. But here at last we concluded that cruising England on two wheels had lost its romance, so from Oxford we set off south toward London.

  We stopped for the night at an inn. After dinner we repaired to the bar where we met a pleasant gentleman drinking a mug of what he declared to be his favorite tipple. This, so he explained, consisted of Guinness stout mixed with port. He urged us to test this libation for ourselves, if only to enhance our own life experience. I was drinking Bass Ale and declined; Norma did not wish to hurt the gentleman’s feelings and gave an indecisive response. The gentleman, thus encouraged, signaled the bartender, who put a glass of dark syrupy liquid with a fringe of foam at the top in front of Norma. She sighed, squared her shoulders, and with true American pluck lifted the glass and gulped down several swallows of this liquid. Here, motivated by gallantry, I draw a screen of secrecy over the ensuing events, some of which took place on the street and over the gutter.

  On the next day we continued south and in the evening rolled into London. We checked into a Bloomsbury Hotel near the British Museum, then spent several days exploring London aboard the wonderful double-decker buses: Covent Garden, Hay Market, Picadilly Circus, Bond Street, Portobello Road, Mayfair, Soho…names of magic. One evening we dined at Simpson’s-in-the-Strand, an extraordinary restaurant dating from the early 19th Century. When a customer enters he is seated at a table, then is approached by a server wheeling a hooded cart, in which reposes a magnificent joint of roast beef keeping warm over a bed of coals. The server slices off slabs of roast beef which he serves along with dishes of potatoes and leeks; then, in a quiet voice he says, “And if you fancy a bit more, you need only signal and I shall be pleased to assist you—but!—you
must not waste.”

  Needless to say the roast beef was beyond reproach, and Simpson’s was indeed a splendid restaurant.

  The next day we took lunch at the Savoy Grill, situated in the Savoy Hotel, which has been long considered one of London’s finest hotels, along with Claridge’s, Brown’s, The Dorchester, the Connaught and The Ritz. This is the same Savoy Grill where Bertie Wooster entertained his various fiancées and where “aunt bellowed to aunt like dinosaurs across a primeval swamp”. The exploits of Bertie Wooster are chronicled in the books which have Jeeves in the title, such as Very Good, Jeeves; Right Ho, Jeeves; Carry On, Jeeves…all masterly works which validate my opinion that Wodehouse was one of the finest writers of the 20th century. This is perhaps not a fashionable opinion, but as the reader may have already deduced, few of my opinions are fashionable.

  Wodehouse wrote little poetry, but his verse, such as it is, in my opinion transcends many an effort to extoll the virtues of a grecian urn. As a reference, here I will quote two lines from the first stanza of “Good Gnus”:

  When cares attack and life seems black,

  How sweet it is to pot a yak

  And in the last stanza occurs this couplet:

  And one more gnu, so fair and frail,

  Has handed in its dinner-pail.

  I hope that any of my readers who are not conversant with Wodehouse will instantly bury themselves in these marvelous works.

  Neither Norma nor I wished to explore the continent of Europe on two wheels, so we sold our bicycles, boarded a train, and departed England. We bypassed France and rode directly into Austria and debarked at Innsbruck. At this point we were ready to settle down for a time and produce some profitable words. This would establish the program we would subsequently follow in many future excursions. We would find some romantic spot, rent a house or apartment, and there work sometimes as long as two or three months turning out a novel or set of stories.