Pure Dirt

by Francis Adams

  “You come down now. You can finish that after you eat something,” she beckoned.

  “I’m almost done, just ten minutes more,” he answered her. He took another nail from between his lips, held it on the shingle and pounded. Climbing down the ladder and wiping his hands with a rag, he entered the house.

  Pharo’s mother placed a plate before him at the dining table.

  “Wash your hands and sit,” she urged.

  Pharo rose and walked to the sink.

  “Your uncle wants you to help him load some scrap metal tomorrow. Make yourself handy for him,” she informed her son.

  Pharo answered her from the sink. “I was going to go fishing tomorrow. Can’t he wait?”

  She waited patiently for her son to sit down. “You know your uncle has been good to us since your father left. The least we can do is repay him when he asks a favor.”

  Pharo sat at the table and picked up a fork and started to chow down. “Just a second,” she said, “Lord, we thank you for this abundance on our table, bless this meal. We give thanks in Jesus’s name, Amen.” Pharo lifted his eyes from the plate, “Amen. I’ll call him early. I want to go to the lake.” She stared lovingly at her son, “You better stay in tonight and get an early start. I don’t like you staying out late with that bunch down there.”

  “We stay out of trouble. It’s just shooting pool.”

  “Still,” she followed, “I don’t want you picking up any bad habits. Those places make problems for people. You get liquored up and angry. Come to church.”

  Pharo lowered his fork, “The Lord knows where to find me if he’s looking.”

  “Still, would it hurt you to spend an hour with the brethren?” she asked. “You may need a favor or two one day. The church helps people.”

  “My friends are there if I need help.”

  “I wouldn’t say that you could count on your friends,” she criticized.

  “I can,” he replied. “We have each other’s backs. Nobody messes with us.”

  “Still, I didn’t raise you to be an angry child.” She continued, “I taught you respect. Your friends, they respect themselves.”

  “Ma, can we eat?” he asked in a stern tone. He picked up his plate and carried it into the parlor and ate his meal while watching the evening news on television. Vice-President Gerald Ford stood at the podium:

  The problems we face today were spawned over the last 42 years by programs and policies of the opposition party which has controlled the Congress of the United States, the House and the Senate, thirty-eight of the last forty-two years, A couple of days ago I read the anti-inflation plan put forth by the opposition. Well, if mine was a marshmallow, theirs was a lemon. Are you, we, going to proceed down the same path, that same road, that produced the problems in the first place? Problems of ever rising prices, of ever more centralization of power in Washington, undermining our foreign relations with handcuffed restrictions of the President and the Secretary of State.

  Pharo shook his head.

  The stock market crash of 1973 through 1974 came at the collapse of the Bretton Woods system. The system tied the value of the dollar to the value of physical gold. The United States, which controlled two-thirds of the world’s gold, insisted the system rest on both gold and the US dollar. In August of 1971, during President Nixon’s presidency, the US terminated the convertibility of the US dollar to gold rendering the dollar a fiat currency. Fiat money is government issued currency that is not backed by a physical commodity such as gold, but rather by the government that issued it. The currency is physically worth the paper that it is printed on. When a government either loses their ability or refuses to guarantee its value, the usual consequence is hyperinflation. This devaluation allowed the US to print more currency to pay for such ambitious incentives as the Apollo space program, the Viet Nam War, and the Watergate coverup.

  Pharo’s mother sat at the dining room table sorting the coins that she had collected during the month. She wrapped the quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies into the colorful paper rollers that the bank supplied as a courtesy. She traded them for dollars. She rose from her chair, sliced the pie sitting on the counter, and poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the stove. Placing the pie and coffee on a tray, she carried it to the parlor and served Pharo his dessert.

  “Sweet Potato pie,” she said. “Your favorite.”

  “Thanks, Ma,” he said.

  “Have you spoken to the counselor at school. Do you know what you are going to do after you graduate?”

  “Can we talk about this another time?”

  Pharo’s mother relented moving to the easy chair next to the sofa. “With the price of things going up like they do, we’re going to need extra to keep up. Why, milk rose twenty-five cents… and bacon fifteen,” she uttered woefully. Pharo sipped the coffee and put the cup down on the saucer. “There aren’t many jobs. Nobody is hiring. It’s all temporary… as needed.”

  “Well, maybe you should ask your Uncle Lee. He might carry you. You get along with my brother,” she said.

  Jack Malloy addressed his film study class, “HAL 2000, supercomputer, artificial intelligence, we have a lot of that around here, right Miller? What or who is HAL? Panel, pick someone,” Mr. Malloy asked.

  “The Panel chooses Peter.”

  “Peter. Tell us about HAL.”

  Peter looked down at the mimeograph handout reading from Malloy’s purple handwriting:

  “HAL 2000 was a computer that was programmed to control all aspects of the Jupiter mission. HAL’s programming was flawed. HAL was programmed to ensure that the mission would not be jeopardized. HAL murders astronaut Frank by shutting him out of the ship, leaving him to die in deep space, because HAL determines that he is a threat to the mission objective. HAL 2000 was programmed by a human, and so makes decisions based on a schizophrenic logic. He is forced to decide between the success of the mission and the safety of the astronauts. HAL 2000’s flawed logic considers human life as expendable when threatened by failure.”

  “Correct, Mr. Schultz!” Malloy praised.

  “I find it interesting that as Dave begins shutting down the program, Hal tries to coax Dave into stopping what he is doing. He even starts singing, On A Bicycle Built for Two, which is hilarious!” Dede commented.

  “Yes, the logic programmed into HAL is a map of the human psyche turned sociopath. Kubrick’s 2001 is a forewarning of the idiosyncrasies in creating the perfect thinking machine. Film is a unique twentieth century art form that borrows from all the other arts, composition and light from painters, sound from the musical arts, storytelling from the novel or the play, even the sciences are incorporated in this new medium. Some consider Kubrick’s 2001 a masterpiece of storytelling within a visual context; others regard the film as a confusing, difficult to watch, exercise in self-indulgence. Please write a critique to be handed in on Friday. Break it down into paragraphs. Discuss the cinematography, the editing, the musical score and the direction.”

  The period bell rang, and the students rushed out of their seats.

  Malloy rose from his director’s chair. “We’re making a flop-flop this weekend. Who can make it to the park on Saturday? We’re shooting Soul, the black experience. I have dancers set to go. We’re aiming for a ten o’clock shoot at the outdoor theater.” Malloy chose nicknames for many of the filmnuts. The nicknames were usually the last names of Hollywood film directors, editors, or cinematographers. Hank walked into the nutroom where the young teacher’s assistant sat smoking a cigarette. She stared at Hank without saying a word. A few students entered the room followed by Malloy. “I’m riding to Photo Haven to pick up film. Do you have the list?” he addressed Jane, his young assistant. Jane, nicknamed Kubrick, picked up her notebook and read aloud, “Ten rolls of color film, three rolls of black and white, batteries, and editing cement.” Malloy followed, “Bergman will oversee sound. He�
��ll be at the park with a portable tape machine. Orson Welles is carrying cameras and tripods. I have Dede Allen bringing sandwiches and drinks for lunch. We’ll need drivers to pick up dancers. Who has a car available for pick up and drop off?”

  “I have a car,” Hank said. “I can pick up people.”

  “You’ll pick up Kubrick and two dancers. Add Abbott to the pick-up drop-off list. I’ll be back.”

  Jane had spent her youth in Chicago. She moved to New Jersey with her mother and sister after her parent’s divorce. She studied art and exhibited great talent, spending her free time drawing in a sketchbook that she always carried in her strapped leather camera case.

  “Where shall I pick you up?” Hank asked.

  “I live in town at the Towers,” Jane replied. “If you take me home today, I’ll show you where.”

  “Sure,” Hank said.

  The Buick parked on Warren street. Jane placed the key in the glass door and walked with Hank to the elevator.

  “I’m in apartment 13-F,” she said.

  She opened the apartment door inviting Hank inside. Jane lived in a studio apartment with an open kitchen, separate bathroom, and hall closet. From the thirteenth floor, she had a view of the Delaware river and the Morrisville landscape on the opposite bank. An art deco metal and wooden table was situated under a hanging ceiling light. Her mattress lie on the floor in one corner on top of a box spring. The walls of her apartment were tacked with ink drawings and paintings.

  “You’re talented,” Hank remarked looking at the hanging artwork.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “Can you stay for a cup of coffee?” she asked lighting a pot of water on the stove. “I work nights at the merry-go-round as a bartender, so I qualify for low income housing. I only pay eighty-five dollars a month.”

  “Aren’t you afraid to live in town?”

  “No, I don’t go out. The building is safe. We buzz people in and out using the intercom. The front doors are always locked.”

  Jane walked to a box of vinyl record albums, selected one, and placed the vinyl disc on the record player resting on the tiled floor. The phonograph needle settled into the groove of the record, and the room was filled with the sound of jazz flute music.

  “What is that?”

  “Afternoon of a Fawn,” she replied. “I’m thinking about using it for the soul film.”

  “It’s nice, but isn’t it kind of slow?”

  “I’ll intercut it with other music. I’ve been editing ice skater footage.”

  Jane moved to a wooden board stretched across two columns of cinderblock. Two projectors rested on top and were pointed at a white canvas on the wall. She turned on the projectors, and then ran each projector forward, then in reverse, back and forth, freezing each projector on a single frame that projected a scratch mark onto the canvas. She synchronized the starting point of each reel of film using this technique. Pushing both levers at once, the film lit the canvas with images. The images dissolved one into the other as the skater spun around on a frozen lake. The image of the skates dissolved into images of snowy evergreens that dissolved into a sun rising between the clouds. The films both ran out through the chamber and the canvas was bathed in bright white light. She turned off the projectors.

  “That’s all I have so far.”

  “Looks great, how do you do that? It must take hours.”

  A large book rested on the art deco enamel table.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “A gift from my father for my birthday. It’s all of the paintings Van Gogh was known to have painted,” Jane said.

  “Van Gogh?”

  “Yes. He was a Dutch painter who painted in the south of France. He went mad and cut off his ear and handed it in a wrapped cloth to a prostitute.”

  Hank recoiled, “Was he nuts? Why would he do that?”

  “He painted in the town of Arles. The summer sun was known to make people crazy. And Vincent was fond of drinking absinthe.”

  “Absinthe?”

  “Absinthe was a popular drink at the time. It was distilled from a wormwood plant; it was known to cause hallucinations.”

  “So, he poisoned himself?” Hank asked.

  “No one knows exactly why Vincent had his spells. It may have been turpentine poisoning. He wound up recovering in an asylum.”

  “I wish I could paint like that,” Hank said.

  “Anyone can be taught how to draw, but becoming an artist is another thing. It’s a passion. Not everyone who draws is an artist.”

  Jane poured the coffee into two cups and set them on the table. Hank scanned the room and noticed a plasticine bust resting on top of an old trunk.

  “That looks like Malloy,” Hank observed.

  “It is,” Jane replied, “I have been working on a bust of Jack.”

  “You have talent,” Hank commented.

  “Thank you. Are you busy on the weekend?” Jane inquired.

  “No.”

  “I’d like to shoot some footage in the alleys of Trenton for Soul.”

  “Saturday?”

  “Around eleven? I work late at the bar.”

  “Eleven. I’ll be here.”

  Jack Malloy grew up in the Bronx and had a watered-down Bronx accent. After graduating from high school, he joined the Navy as a way out. Entering college on a veteran’s program, he finished his graduate degree in English in the Midwest. Traveling east, he landed in Wildwood, New Jersey, where he met his wife. He married into a family that operated a string of pizza restaurants on the Wildwood boardwalk.

  Jack set his briefcase on the desk near the front door and lit a cigarette. Shuffling through the mail, he sorted the bills from the paper garbage. “You spend more time at that school. You could get home earlier. Your children could use your help with their schoolwork,” Jack’s wife spoke from the kitchen. “The grades are due. It’s quieter in the classroom when everyone leaves for the day,” Jack replied somberly. He opened the refrigerator and popped the lid off a bottle of beer. Sipping from the bottle, he sat down at the kitchen table.

  “I dropped off a few filmnuts and got gas. How is everything? Calm?”

  “Jamie needs to memorize her lines for the play. Billy isn’t home yet. You should look at his room; that boy is a slob. I get on him, but it’s like talking to a brick wall. Nel is spending too much time with that Stanley kid. You need to talk to her. I’m worried,” Carol said.

  “I’ll speak to her,” Jack answered sipping his beer.

  “Jamie was accepted at Villanova,” Carol continued, “she’s taking placement tests. Billy is slacking off. I don’t know what will become of him. He’s not interested in schoolwork. You need to talk with him. It won’t be long before they’re grown and out. You don’t want to be a stranger to your own kids, do you?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Jack answered.

  Carol placed a bowl of pasta on the table and sliced the loaf of bread. Sitting down at the table, she drew a tong full of linguine onto her plate. “I need you to take my car to Murphy’s. It makes a knocking sound when I step on the gas, and I need you on Saturday. The yard needs work too. Stick around. I can’t manage everything.”

  “Make a list, Carol. I’ll get everything done.”

  Pharo walked to the mailbox, opened it, grabbed the handful of letters and lowered the red flag. Walking back to the house, he sifted through the pile in his hands. He pulled a letter addressed to him and opened the envelope. The letter read:

  The law requires you to have this Notice in addition to your registration Certificate, in your personal possession at all times and to surrender it upon entering active duty in the Armed Forces. Any person who alters, forges, knowingly destroys, knowingly mutilates or in any manner changes this certificate or who, for the purpose of false identification or representation, has in his possession a certifi
cate of another or who delivers his certificate to another to be used for such purpose, may be fined not to exceed $10,000 or imprisoned for not more than 5 years, or both.

  The notice was signed by the Executive Secretary of the local board of Selective Service. Pharo walked into his room and placed the letter on his dresser, then quietly headed out to the lake with his fishing pole and tackle box.

  On Saturday, Jane buzzed Hank in, and he took the elevator to apartment 13-F. He loaded the Buick with a tripod, camera case and box of Super-8 movie film. “I’d like to take some black and white footage of the alleys for the lap dissolves,” Jane explained.

  “My father taught me how to use cameras,” Hank confided, “we can shoot some slow-motion footage if you like. It looks smoother, dreamier in slo-mo. I know where there are alleys. I grew up down here.” Hank drove to the Mill Hill area on the border of town. Jane rolled down the passenger window as Hank slowly proceeded down a dead-end alley.

  “Look good?”

  “Yes,” Jane said pulling the camera away from the window. Hank put the car in reverse looking in the rearview mirror. A car pulled into the alley blocking his exit. He waited. “Someone’s behind us.” He bit his lip and rubbed his palms on the steering wheel while keeping an eye on the car behind him. He waited. The engine idled; his foot was on the brake. The door of the car behind him slammed, and the car backed out of the alley. Hank rolled the Buick backwards onto the street. “I was worried there for a minute. You never know down here,” he told Jane. Driving under the Ferry street bridge, Jane pointed to the embankment.

  “Can we stop here?” she asked.

  “What’s the plan?”

  “I want to get a shot of the railroad tracks.”

  Hank parked the car on the street, and they climbed up the embankment, pausing at the edge of the tracks. Hank and Jane made their way to the center of the four tracks. Jane opened the legs of the tripod and set them securely into the gravel between the two inner tracks. She started the camera with her eye pressed to the viewfinder. Standing beside her, Hank noticed the bright headlight of the train engine approaching from the west. “Jane, a train is coming. We have to move,” Hank warned. Looking down the tracks he cautioned her, “Jane move, quick, come on, we have time.” Hank moved off the tracks, but Jane froze leaning on the tripod.