Vic Socotra

27 November 2010

Reunion

(Detroit-Windsor Tunnel. Photo Mike Russell, used by permission)

There is a Ministry of Reunifiction in Seoul, and I assume one in Pyongyang, too, though I did not see it when I visited years ago. This morning, the news is about the tiresome brinkmanship being practiced by that murderous and annoying L’il Kim.

The latest, of course, is that the North is accusing Seoul of using “human shields” on Yeon pyeong Island, where artillery fire initiated by the commies killed two South Korean civilians this week.

The North's state media said the South was using the deaths for propaganda. Yawn.

Two marines also died in the shelling, and that brings the number of ROKs killed by the cult-of-the-personality to right around fifty since the summer.

The funerals were held while we slept here, and there were popular protests against the North’s conduct. The North has also issued a new warning on US-South Korea military exercises, which include the USS George Washington carrier strike group.

It occurs to me that my son could wind up on that ship as early as next year, so whatever they are up to, I hope they get it over soon.

I am better it is not reunion, though. I did not want to think about it, having wasted way too much time thinking about both the Koreas since Jake sent me there for the first time to live in 1980.

I turned my attention back to a different sort of reunion, one held thirty-five years ago. What a different life he led from mine, I wondered.

The narrative by the unknown young man from 1975 continues. For some reason, he did not utilize the left hand side of the book except for random and disconnected thoughts. One of them goes like this:

“Author’s note: The writer is a 24-year-old punk who has spent the better part of his life driving up and down he has written nothing of importance. Whenever the writing threatens to become coherent, the Reader ay rest assured that it is because the party of the first part has run out of (phrase illegible).

There are additional words that could be an invocation of “Hunter S. Thompson,” but the ink has bled away.

The narrative is disturbing, since the twenty-something author has a distressing approach to himself in the third person, which is much like walking into a funhouse mirror-within-mirror world; an observer looking at only reflected images.

The more linear portion of the narrative continues:
“We finally settled on a final game plan. Bad Credit Bobbie would fly to Philly to get drunk with Bea, I would drive to the reunion, and then, in a masterpiece of cross-country coordination, we would meet at the Mickey Dee’s on Water Street in Beverly, Mass, on Sunday, July 6th at precisely four PM. Thereupon we would locate J.T. his yacht and take to the high seas in precisely that manner.

I knew it wouldn’t work. Nothing that complicated could come off for “The Together Boys,” who demonstrably were not.”

Note of the reverse of that page: “* This was a most depressing week. I saw Tombstone (the bitter irony of his nick-name really grates these days) and his radiation treatments have left him susceptible to infection and unable to eat. He was painfully thin and the prognosis is uncertain at best. H can’t drink now, of course, but he had some super (phrase illegible.) Mad Dog?

Also, Up North Bob B was installing underwater lights on the dock at the cabin. His Dad tested them while Rob was still in the water. RIP.

These things come in threes? I heard from Bear that his girlfriend Kubie’s youngest sister has developed the symptoms of Leukemia, the quick kind.

Anybody have delusions of immortality?”

The narrative torrent continued on the facing page: “But preparations continued apace. I wrapped up my (phrase illegible) and stowed it in the interior left rear door panel of the Caprice. The tires were replaced and balanced, and the front end realigned. Oil was changed, A/C back in commission. The Cruiser was back in business.

Finally, we took the pets off to doggy jail for the weekend and everything was in readiness. Except me, of course. The ‘Rents were also headed for the reunion, and I would do that before proceeding up to New England, I had the lanterns canteens, tent, sleeping bag, etc. etc, but I always get a little nervous before big trips. Like before going to Europe. When it finally came the day to go to the airport and split for parts unknown, what I wanted to do was go straight back to that cozy bed under the orange blanket.

So, I snarled at Mom immediately after seeing Bonnie-the-dog dragged off down the gray concrete corridor at the two-story animal jail. Then back to bed for a three-hour nap.

Sleep is the greatest eraser going. I woke up all foggy, then cocktails with M &D, then back to dreamland with the television muttering in the background. Geraldo Rivera seemed to be talking to some intense women, demanding a status update on their very public service; the Tigers had slumped to a dozen games in back of Boston. Nothing was happening until the All-Star break. A great time to get out of town.

Friday dawned bright and sunny, dew on the windshield and all that. ETD was set for seven-thirty and we only missed it by five minutes. Brother Spike, Mom and I were going to drive to Rochester in the Caprice Classic, and my sister and Dad would be along later in the morning in the big gun-metal-colored Delta 88.

Traffic was moderate across I-96 in Michigan, light, I thought, considering it was the 4th of July weekend in the 199th summer of our independence. I managed a steady 65-68 mph, which wasn’t bad in view of that idiotic 55-mph speed law. Sheer idiocy: tooling along on a highway designed for safe passage at 80 in cars that could loaf at a hundred. Shoot, the Caprice idles at 35!

Note from the otherwise blank left page: “Wonder what the weather is like in Afghanistan?”

This trip had some interesting dynamics that surpassed the 25-hour drive to Fort Lauderdale for Spring Break in the red VW Beetle with Porky, Sunny and Hagen, or the epic hallucinogenic 30 hours from Detroit to Park City, Utah. Mom was putting together an annotated bibliography for a science fiction course she was teaching at the high school.

She picked three bulky anthologies and quizzed me on the story lines for all the tales. I had utterly lost my cool by the time we got to Detroit, since it had been years since I read some of the stories, and she did not care to actually talk about the stories, since she does not like Sci-Fi, and was only interested in getting the gist and moving on. I would get on a roll about the intricacies of the story of aliens and rockets and she would cut me off and ask questions about the next one. Apparently I cannot drive and think at the same time, and it was also the first long-distance trip I have conducted in some time without (phrase illegible). It was brutal.

Note from the left side of the book: “This segment of the narrative may be fragmentary or incoherent. I am alternating paragraphs with the application of Strip-Eeze Brand paint-remover to the after spaces of the sloop Neith. If you are interested in a challenge some time, attack an overhead area in tight corners with a paint chipper. The paint should be in multiple layers and at least fifty years old. The fumes from the chemical solvent rank right there with Testor’s model airplane glue on the buzz-o-meter….

We made a pit-stop in Detroit at Porky’s house to pick up some mail. Just bills, of course, and a final wonderful present from the Book Company- a $25 electronic text book I intended to give to my Uncle.

I-75 to downtown was deserted on the way to the Tunnel to Canada. There we discovered the only delay of the trip Traffic was backed up all the way to Woodward Ave- giant Chevys and Buicks with the windows rolled up tight and the air conditioning going full blast. Traffic in the tunnel was stop and go right under the Detroit River, which is a sort of claustrophobic, wondering if the clown in the rusted out deuce and a quarter is going to stall in the tunnel and leave us all trapped for hours.

Then we popped out in the Canadian sunshine, turning onto the 401 McDonald-Cartier Freeway via the famous Oulette Avenue.

This was unquestionably the fastest leg of the trip. We clicked along at over eighty the whole trip, sometimes in the mid-nineties, passing slower traffic. Hell, I was passed twice. Sweet ass! Just like 1968, when Mom went 250 miles from the cabin to slide into the driveway in Detroit in just over three hours.

We were strongly admonished NOT to tell Dad about the new land-speed record.

Speeds came down to the mid-sixties across the Queensway, and it was an international embarrassment that it was cars with Michigan plates that insisted on driving a righteous 55 mph in the left hand lane. Dumbasses.

A pimply-faced prick of a customs agent made me open the trunk on the Caprice at the Bridge into Buffalo. Mom can’t understand my hostility to these uniformed dolts. The guy made me get out of the car and open the trunk. He found nothing, of course, and it was just harassment for my response to his opening question.

“Where have you been,” he says in a tone of authority. WTF, I thought.

“The road in back of me seems to be in Ontario,” trying to match his authority. So I guess he took me for a smartass, which is probably right. But really, how dim can you be?

After a little ritual humiliation dispensed by the Customs Service we drove on to Rochester. There was little traffic and no State Troopers.

The house above Lake Erie was unchanged from all the other visits. It is the ultra-modern of the 1930s, sleek and glass and linear. My cousin Billy is now 30 and about to get married. It looks like the family name has a shot at advancing into the next century. His fiancé is a cute gal and they should make out OK if anyone can.

Others in the cast of characters were Janice, husband Dick, and their kids- great ones, incidentally- John is smart and 15, Heidi so shy, and young Jim. Cousin Alan was there, too, and all of us from Grand Rapids. It seems like we are always driving some place.

The high point of the reunion was the showing of some old family home-movies. The clan has been at this since the 1930s, so there are some remarkable vignettes. There was Mom with her bright red lipstick, dad wearing dark glasses and looking like the young Gregory Peck; dashing young Burr and Grandma alive again.

I slept out in the yard, in an old covered jungle hammock that Aunt Jerry’s bother gave her after the war. It was not super comfortable, but at least (phrase illegible).

The clan has installed a new tennis court with lights and the whole hog. Most of the reunion was spent down there. Dad played five or six sets, even Uncle Jim, 17 years his senor, played six sets the day before and limped around the remainder of the weekend, which drew to a close rapidly. My ETD from Rochester, working things backward, was around nine o’clock, if I was going to catch Beau and Max munching Filet o’Fish brand sandwiches at the Mickey Dee’s in Beverly, Mass, at four o’clock sharp.

I made my farewells, and hit the road under clear sunny skies. Gas was 74.3 cents a gallon. Really expensive, you know? Like Science Fiction....