Dear Little Lady Love

CHAPTER TEN

I had been asked to dinner some years before,
met her entire family, and was asked to accompany her dad
to Plant #1; as he had a pressing matter
to attend to there that day; …. .
The ‘pressing matter’, was that Susan had been booted out of
Presbyterian Hospital Nurses Training in Charlotte
because she had sneaked out one night;
was caught, and suspended from school.
Threatening me with what the dire consequences would be
if any future scandal ever involved me; I chose to defend
his daughter, and myself, for having attended a get together with many friends at a friend’s cabin on Lake Wylie;
which was the only reason I had driven to his
hometown to have dinner in the first place; having no doubts
but what his agenda was going to be.
Apparently moved by my effort to clear his daughter of shame;
her dad showed me around Plant #1.

The months of traveling on pure commission had sharpened my sales skills to the point there was now a new awareness each time I found a hot-button of a buyer; as their glow gave me a secure feeling the odds were now heavily in my favor of being able to close a sale. I had learned my lesson well, ruefully remembering having to sit in my old blue Ford in front of a Western Union Telegraph Office one night waiting for the commission due from my day’s sale; which only then meant I would have the money to check into a motel.

My subsequent sales and earnings, this time around, were much better than had been the case from my first endeavor as a car salesman; as I began enjoying the fruits of my labors, and the company of friends.

A new found friend named Jimmy Barrier had come on board at Courtesy Ford, as he had just mustered out of The Marines; and had been encouraged to do so, because his folks were friends of Bill and Pat Beck. Jimmy and me would ride each other pretty hard when our pay was larger than the other’s for a week; and once or twice we left the dealership the time the store closed on Saturday’s around 6:00P, and took my driver to OD Beach to see what the pickin’s were like at The Pad (Jimmy’s first demo was a 1965 blue and white four door Fairlane 500 pillared sedan Blackie had given up).

It was about that time when Susan and me began dating with more frequency and seriousness than ever before; as it had gotten to the place she would drive to Charlotte from Winston Salem, where she had graduated nurses training, and was living and working at the time. Never could figure out how she could time it so close, for she would arrive only minutes before I finished up at 6:00P on Saturday’s in the car store, and we would drive to OD. Susan flew to Atlanta for a long weekend when I was traveling through some months before selling vacation promotions; and on our trip to the zoo it became clear she was having her period that weekend, because the moment we stopped in front of the monkey cage they started pulling their pud’s; sensing she was in heat. Susan and me had stayed in touch all along, and had by now dated, off and on, for four years. Susan was already halfway through her 25th year, seemingly the bewitching age many young women got real serious about wanting to marry back then; and I was some 7 months younger. By now we had both begun to imagine our days of living single were on the final countdown as we had begun to volley occasionally about how many good times we had had; and that marriage just might be even better. There was little doubt we both knew how the other felt about marriage; because neither of us had ever expressed any inclination to live our lives out as a single person.

The first weekend of every month was, with rare exception, the weekend scheduled for all USMCR Meetings, and July, 1965, was the exception. July 4 had fallen on the Sunday before, and Susan had spent her week at OINC (Ocean Isle, North Carolina), at the beach with her folks, as was always the case, in that her dad was in the textile business. July 4 week had traditionally been the week all textile mills in the south shut-er-down for that week, and Susan's dad had done the same, closing the mill that bore his name, so everyone could get their annual one week of vacation over and done with.

I had arrived home from my weekend drill that Sunday afternoon, July 11, and had already lay down to take a nap when mom called me to the phone. It was Susan, phoning from her folk's home, asking me to pick her up, and drive her to Winston Salem; as the power steering pump was acting up on her Thunderbird, and she was concerned about having to make a 75 mile drive, as the crow flies, to arrive there.

It had naturally been another lousy USMCR drill weekend, and still drowsy, as I had begun to nap; but tried vainly to suggest alternative ways for her to arrive in W-S, which were each in turn cordially rejected, as nothing would do but for me make the trip. I doggedly agreed she was in a tough spot, and feeling somehow flattered she knew she could depend on me; told her I would be leaving home within the half hour, which would put me at her place in about an hour and a half.

I dressed and started out with Susan's directions still fresh in mind. Her family had moved since my first trip to her hometown, but only further out the same street they had lived on then, and there was no concern about not being able to find her. I had been invited to dinner some years before, had met her entire family, and accompanied her dad to Plant #1, as he had a pressing matter to attend to there that day. Concluding the matter requiring his attention; her dad showed me a gizmo on a loom in the plant he told me he had patented himself; that seemed to me would be required equipment on every loom, in every mill, where fabric or material of any kind was being woven.

I made the first two turns in an effort to again find their home; and stopped in a Shell Station to fill my car as much more gas would be required to complete the remaining 150 miles of my trip. The young man was filling my tank when I thought to ask if my directions were still clear enough in my mind, as I had not written them down. I told of being on the way to Susan's folk's home, then giving her dad's name, and wanted to know if I was still on the right track.

I was startled to see the man's reaction, as he immediately snapped to, stood erect, as if he had been a Buck Private who had just seen his first Bird Colonel (it was awesome experience); and with proper arm and hand signals, went through the motions that would put me through the last two turns which would result with me winding up in front of their home.

Had only been a hundred yards away from the street I was looking for when given these directions, and easily recognized when passing the ranch style home Susan lived in on my first visit.

At the end of that same road there was a mailbox with their family name on it, as she said there would be. What she had not said was the paving changed to a lighter shade of color there, the road dipped, and then curved up the slope of a ridge causing me to pass through two massive stone columns after traveling the length of a football field. Some forty or fifty yards later I came to a stop in front of the most beautiful ante bellum style colonial home I had ever seen; that was as white as Susan's teeth, and colossal columns that were not only supporting the roof, but the sky above, in that little bit of heaven.

I was so astounded by the beauty of the scene, my only thought upon getting out of my car, was to first kick, and then kneel beside my left front tire, as if to check to see if it looked properly inflated; in a feeble effort to show my nonchalance in visiting in such a lovely setting. Susan came running out, greeting me at the end of the walk with an appropriate gentle kiss; and I clearly remember making some stupid remark about how well the textile business must be going, she thought witty enough to laugh about.

Susan's flawless complexion had never been more appealing, and I savored her as we stood there those first few moments, enjoying the shade of the giant hardwood trees on the outward side of the drive of her folk's home.

Susan's week at the beach had produced a tan of golden brown, as she was one of those fortunate persons who could absorb as much sun as she wanted during the day, and while she slept at night, her body spread it evenly over her body making her look like she had been turned on a spit. Her hair already had the appearance of professional frosting with every seventh hair proudly displaying a grey strand; and her eyes sparkled with the brilliance of a full moon. Her 105 pounds was perfectly distributed over her 5'7" frame; and except for the fact there are slim first grade little girls who have rose buds larger than her breasts, she would have rated a upper 8 on anyone's scale.

Susan did not offer to show me the upstairs of her folks home, so as she gathered her belongings I waited in the living room, seating myself where I could enjoy the view out the front windows. It was only then I remember feeling rather ridiculous sitting there drinking an ice cold beer from the stash in the cooler in my car; and began to feel even more conspicuous having to endure the gaze of the large oil painting over the fireplace of Susan's father, who was looking down on me as if he did not appreciate me drinking a beer in such a sumptuous setting; especially while sitting in what later proved to be his favorite chair. Choosing not to endure his glare I exited the room to stand on the front porch; to reminisce, and make the comparison with my fraternity house at UGa.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Remember that birthday present Susan gave me,
the afternoon after I presented her with a 7/10th carat diamond,
just after midnight only hours before?

The stark reality is, razors in a, ‘tiny blue leatherette case’,
that looked just like that one,
had been offered for sale at Plaza Hills Pharmacy,
when I was a jerk there; five years before,
and only sold for a buck, maybe two.

A year later, could’a been two,
I stood waist deep, in the Atlantic Ocean,
at absolute mean low tide,
in front of her folk’s house at OINC,
and grunted; making my best effort,
to air-mail my razor in its, ‘tiny blue leatherette case’,
to Atlantis.

The Charlotte Buick Zone Manager at the time was a man named Bill Veselick; and having shook hands with Mr Veselick a time or two at Folger Buick, I decided to call on him. It was a beautiful summer day, and after arriving at his office on East Morehead Street, and re-introducing myself, we exchanged pleasantries, and made our opening remarks.

I expressed my interest and desire to become an auto dealer selling, what in my opinion, was the finest motor car on the road; and as expected, Mr Veselick concurred. I went on to explain my wife had a trust, and there was reason to believe funds would be available if the right opportunity came along (Susan mentioned one time she had a trust, but told me in her next breath she had been cautioned against ever discussing her trust with me, and we therefore never did).

Bill Veselick then wanted to know why I thought I could be a good auto dealer selling his wares; and I began by telling of the time, when I was a little boy, when my mom was telling neighbors her Uncle Carl was going to be visiting, and the memorable response everyone had when mom told he drove a, ‘Buick’. It is also a pretty safe bet I gave him the old, ‘gas and oil is in my blood’, routine; because whatever my retort was; it was apparently satisfactory, in that I truly had a deep desire to own a car dealership in a nearby town.

We chatted for a good fifteen or twenty minutes about anything, and everything, that came to mind before Mr Veselick, rather matter-of-factly, told of two dealerships for sale in close by towns, both of which were joint dealerships selling both Buick’s and Pontiac’s; and that Buick had high hopes of increasing sales in both markets.

I visited with the Rock Hill, South Carolina, dealership first; imagining that location to be easier to get to for the flock of friends who would surely follow. The dealer there was curt, and had no interest in talking with anyone who did not have a fat financial statement in hand; so after only one stop there, I abandoned hope of being able to deal there.

Lincolnton was the county seat of Lincoln County, and all in all another sleepy little North Carolina town that ran on the schedules of either the textile mills, or the garment manufacturers, depending on where your pay came from; and I am real sure a road sign on U.S. Highway 27 read the same mileage about the same time you were leaving Charlotte city limits.

The town seemed to be only slightly larger than Susan’s hometown, if any; and I had no trouble spotting those particular billboards which would inevitably announce a man named Ken Wilson was the new Buick-Pontiac Dealer in town. I had driven through the town dozens of times, as it had been in my territory when I was a business forms salesman, and it felt good to so easily recognize familiar landmarks. As there was no particular hurry on this day I rode by the plant where I had come so close in placing a sizeable forms order some five years before; and as I pulled through their parking lot I could imagine any number of cars there having license plates from my dealership: As the people with the most menial jobs could afford an inexpensive smaller Pontiac, while the big shots would surely want to drive the Buick Deuce-And-A-Quarter (Electra 225), featuring its elegant Limited trim package.

The country club did not even pretend to be awe inspiring, and was somehow on the opposite end of the spectrum from the splendor and majesty one could feel as one approached the imposing and noble structures that house The Myers Park Country Club, The Charlotte Country Club, or the larger new post Carmel Country Club in my hometown; but its golf course was green and manicured, and I could imagine me being host of a perennial foursome of bankers and lenders who would tee the ball every Wednesday afternoon, as even the weather would cooperate, and not be blustery, or rainy, on my golf day.

The Ford dealer, and the Chev-Olds dealer each had a customer or two on their lot that hot summer afternoon, and all together seemed to be doing fair business as each dealer had a respectable enough looking inventory of both new, and used cars.

My astonishment came in finding the existing Buick-Pontiac dealership building; and discovering there was not a single new car on the showroom floor, or any sign of a new or used car lot, but just an empty patch of ground where the used cars should be where a dilapidated, faded, lopsided sign indicated this was the location where they were once proudly displayed. I circled the square of land where the court house sat in front of the dealership a couple more times in total disbelief of what I was seeing.

I parked the Buick I was driving where I could see The Cline Motors Dealership building; and sat there a few minutes dumb struck, in being able to conjure up thoughts imagining this was the opportunity I had been waiting for my whole life long. The longer I sat there, the more I became convinced that this moment in time was no accident. For the first time ever; I was the right man, at the right place, at the right time!

Accomplishing what I had set out to do for the day, as there had not been any plan to visit with the Lincolnton dealer remembering all to well the poor showing I had made on my first visit to Rock Hill; where the man had caught me off guard, and dismissed me with a scolding, as if I had been a naïve, impish, Oliver Twist.

My ride home that late afternoon filled me with hope, as there was an uncanny feeling I was indeed going to be able to deal with the enigmatic, Mr Cline.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Years ago, Bob Dylan wrote, “The times, they are a-changin”.
Allow me to give my personal opinion
why some things are never going to change.

On November 2, 2004, those girls and guys who stopped
in their respective Ohio polling places after finishing
up their 3rd shift, as well as those in a hurry
so they would not be any later for work than they had to be,
probably punched in on
the Big John Kerry – Little John Edwards ticket,
grateful for knowing they were soon either going to be in bed,
or at work. For the rest of the morning, and early afternoon,
that group of girls and guys who were in a hurry for entirely
different reasons rushed in, and as it happened,
the majority punched in on the Big John – Little John ticket as well.
It was a little later in the day when the girls and guys from
another generation altogether began straggling in to the Ohio polls,
who after giving it much thought that morning,
remembered we were the generation that was once implored to,
"Ask not, what your country can do for you,
ask what you can do for your country".
Proof of the pudding came when the exit polling indicated
The Democrat Party was enjoying a comfortable, if not surprising,
lead of some 4% (52% to 48%) in the early afternoon,
causing one Sunday morning political pundit shortly thereafter
boast they were giving thought to sending Big John to the showers
to get him cleaned up, so he could look his best,
when he made his appearance to collect his prize.
Point being, Dubya and Dick were re-elected, in large part,
because the girls and guys entering the Ohio polls after 2:00P
had decided overwhelmingly our country should never have
to be put through the travesty of having a First Lady
look down her nose at us, on those occasions when
she was in town, and on a rare walk-about with Hubby #2.

It seems there never really was any other alternative for what my life’s work was to be, for all the feelers I put out all unanimously confirmed my choice; my mark, and my million, would yet be made working in the real estate business.

I began talking with anyone who would talk to me about the possibilities of working in the real estate business, and soon began to dream dreams of the future it would provide my wife and me. I called unannounced on everyone whose name was familiar in the residential real estate field; and then anyone whose name showed up in connection with either the commercial or industrial field before finally calling on Mr Edward L Vinson, Sr, once I imagined what to expect in an interview.

Eddie, Jr, and me had been great friends for many years, but I had never met, or shook hands with his dad; even though I felt as though I knew him as a result of knowing so much about his company, and his successes. Once, when I was working for Smith-Thomas Chevrolet, Eddie, along with his dad, called on Mr Thomas one rainy morning while I was working the floor. Mr Vinson was a man not tall in stature, so instead of walking in with a swagger, as John Wayne would, Mr Vinson walked in, for what he lacked in stature, he made up for in enthusiasm and zeal; and walked in that morning like he owned the place.

Waiting in the reception area of Vinson Realty Company I pondered those thoughts again that morning recalling that first time seeing him as easily as if it had only happened the day before. Was not long before his secretary of many years, Mrs Ermine Wilkinson, came out front to fetch me, and direct me to Mr Vinson’s office, where we met, and shook hands. He was a delightful man, and from our very first meeting I felt at ease, and comfortable, being around him; for I already perceived him to the Tsar of Charlotte real estate.

There were two chairs facing each other in front of his large desk, and a sofa facing his desk against the wall in front of him, where two black and white photographs of stately looking apartment buildings were hung that had played such a key role in the development of his company. Behind him was his real work table, that sat in front of a large section of a draped wall that gave one reason to believe it was covering a window; because the only view one would have seen, had it been open, would have been a bleak, barren alley separating the 200 block of South Church Street from the 200 block of South Tryon Street, at a place only a block and a half away from The Square. To the right of the drape, hanging on a wall of thick grass type wallcovering, was his North Carolina Real Estate Broker License with its #3 clearly imprinted in its top right hand corner; and on the other side of the draped wall behind him was where our state licensing board corporate license was displayed. While all the wall on his left held awards and plaques commemorating events in his distinguished career, it was the wall on his right that exhibited his pride and joy, for centered there was an outsized oil painting of his cruiser, SHERI II (namesake for Eddie Jr’s daughter); which was shown cutting through swells on good old Lake Wylie, throwing up its inevitable spray; piloted by a man, imaginary at best being he, at the helm on what appeared to be a beautiful, but yet cloudy and windy day as there were plenty of white caps on the lake.

Seating myself in the chair facing the painting of his cruiser, I shuddered a bit to realize how many dozens of times I had taken a voyage on that very boat; and certain that if there were any way to gauge such things, that I had had better times on his boat than he had ever had himself.

Mr Vinson had to take a call he had been expecting only a minute after I arrived; and after ringing off, we began talking about why I wanted to work in the real estate business. I explained I knew much of his company's good reputation and successes, being a life long Charlottean; that his son and me had many mutual friends, that I had been a guest to many parties his son had thrown at his lake cottage, and ridden on the SHERI II a number of times; and then I smiled a real pleasant smile. Did not mince many more words saying Charlotte was burgeoning beyond anything I would have ever imagined, and after giving it much thought, I would like to have the chance to work in his company, if there was an opening of any kind. We chatted for a right long time that morning, about cars, and friends, and things, and Lake Wylie; and as expected, my case was strengthened after telling of my failed effort to borrow the money from my daddy-in-law to buy the Lincolnton dealership; which caused Mr Vinson to smile a real pleasant smile, as he, too, had come from a family of simple means.

Mr Vinson then told of a ten story office building he was putting together on Park Road that would be about midway between the Woodlawn Shopping Center (the first major strip mall in Charlotte), and the Hamilton House Apartment complex. He then pointed out they would not be breaking ground til the end of the year, and that the building would not be complete until next fall; but then added that at some point in the interim he would have to add an extra man who would be required to lease its space. Having said that, he concluded our meeting as Mrs Wilkinson had announced a moment before, other visitors had arrived to keep their appointment. About the time I reached the door of his office Mr Vinson spoke up to ask if I thought I could lease office space; and while I cannot be sure exactly how I put it, I impressed even myself by telling how much effort I was prepared to give in trying to do so; and then smiled once again.

For some reason I had chosen not to speak to Eddie, Jr, beforehand, as we had not spoken in some months; and found he was not in the office that morning when I concluded my visit. That very next day, Eddie phoned to let me know his dad had mentioned my visit, that I had made a favorable impression, and they had already had some discussion about me as a good candidate for the opening that would surely come available in the coming months.

My hope welled within, as two subsequent visits left me with the clear impression there might be a chance for me to associate with Vinson Realty Company, in the Commercial Department, leasing office space in the new ten story Park Seneca Office Building, and the many other office buildings the company leased and managed in Charlotte. Within only a month or so of my first visit Eddie phoned one day to let me know he felt pretty sure the job would be mine, but added that was an offer only his dad could make.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Boy it used to gall my ass! More and more Phil got to be a real horse's ass by patronizing the women; for anyone who watched The Phil Donahue Show, could see him at least once a week wear a long sad face when making the statement implying all the single men left were suspiciously flexible, or maybe even gay; or whatever: Implying the gay movement was strictly a male phenomenon. Predictably, just as soon as he completes his statement he shuts up, and begins to walk about; as the cameraman pans his audience, where we can now see all the dear ladies there wearing dour expressions, as if they had just viewed a film clip showing the horrors of the Holocaust, or five day old road-kill in front of their home; who are now forlornly clapping their hands until the scene finally breaks away so his sponsors can sell us some soap, or sanitary napkins, or something.

If Phil Donahue was not bad enough, let me tell you how Oprah milked the same cow; cause this is a verbatim quote taken from a transcript of one of her TV Shows from about that point in time.

".... Well, let me just say this. Most women have come to know that when Mr. Right comes along, he's either going to be gay or confused, so we have got to learn to take care of ourselves. Yes, yes, yes. So that's why women are learning to take care of themselves, learning to take care of themselves, they need to be able to have financial equality to take care of themselves."

Now what kind of statement does that make for the modern American Male? That he's either gay or confused? And not one son-of-a-bitch in the entire frigging audience ever said a word in defense of men to ridiculous statements like that.

And then we got Barbara Walters. When Phil was in his heyday, and Oprah was just getting underway, Barbara was interviewing men, most of us thought of as national heroes of sorts, and the woman had the wide to ask these men we looked up to if they were gay (sic) on national TV.
Indeed, Phil and Oprah and Barbara have done more to hobble the modern American Male than the best efforts of Betty Friedan, the National Organization of Women, and Gloria Steinem (who by all accounts, is now a happily married woman) combined.

To this very day, there is an unconscionable disparity, in every aspect of our society, between the way gay ladies and their male counterparts are treated. The bottom line, in this 21st century, is that no new loving, lasting, relationship can be formed, until all the ladies understand men, one and all, believe a gay lady is no less gay than a gay man, or entitled to one whit more regard. The sad reality is there will not be any parity between the sexes until this issue is resolved.

It was about that time Susan and me were invitees to a house-warming party of a dear old friend in another town close by where we were guests among many people we had never met before. Susan was huddled in a group of the ladies talking about babies, or recipes, or whatever it is women talk about when they huddle together; when I found my drink was all but gone. Ambling back to the bar, and not finding the bartender there I began to pour another of the concoction I was drinking for the evening. Another fellow, who had earlier been introduced as being an attorney in the town walked up to perform the same service for himself; and as we exchanged pleasantries once again, I noticed the #&* inset in his college ring.

Since the odds were my uncle could still have been their top elected official, I thought it fitting to ask if he knew the top man in his fraternity; and I was shocked and appalled at his answer.

His reply was in the same tone of voice he might have used, had he been the master of a great plantation in the south, barely one hundred years before; and spouted his contempt with the vengeance for a run-away slave he personally owned. “Yeah, I know who he is, he’s a fucking fag”; were his very words. Not believing for a minute we were talking about the man who might still be the top elected official in his fraternity I mentioned that fact, and again his reply confirmed his earlier statement.

I did not tarry, as I had nothing else to say to the man; but after that brief encounter I walked away with drink in hand to reflect on what had just happened. There had not been any plan to reveal my kinship, as only Susan knew that, and my question had been like any other asked to kindle a conversation.

My first reaction was fear. I had just been told blood kin of mine was supposed to be gay, or whatever; by some nameless-faceless asshole I could not identify even if a reward of a great amount of money was at stake. Again it was plain fear controlling my thoughts those next few minutes; and choosing not to try to befriend anyone right away, I chose to be alone, and walked out onto the patio in the back yard, as the sun had long since set.

For some reason I began having flashbacks; and remembered my uncle showing me photos of his family that dated back to his childhood years, showing his brothers and sisters, my aunts and uncles, seated with his father and mother; and him pointing out my old man was the kid seated on the lap of his father, my grandfather; and then the shock of being able to see the differences between my old man and me, in photos taken of us when we were that same age, would have been indiscernible.

I remembered my uncle telling me about the comments my grandmother had made about me, all lovingly kind and gracious, when I called on him in their home during the unhappy circumstances of my first marriage; and best of all, the talk she and me enjoyed for a good quarter hour. My grandmother’s health was already failing, and neither one of us mentioned we knew who the other was; but I would have loved to put my arms around her, and kissed her cheek, for I never did put my arms around a grandmother, or kiss a grandmother’s cheek.

I remembered my uncle’s delight with Susan, when he accepted our invitation to visit us in our first rented townhouse home; and the pride he showed in finding out Susan was serving her first meal using our china, and silver, and crystal. During our meal Susan made mention that only he would represent her if we ever came to our parting of the ways, so I would then know what real trouble was; and how our laughter had been so unrestrained, the neighbors in the other half of our duplex, would have wondered what was so funny.

I remembered the glowing account Harry Golden had given in his book, Entitle - Entitle, which depicted my uncle as a giant killer; who like David, had fought, and brought Goliath to his knees, in describing Charles A Cannon, as “Lord of The Last Feudal Barony”.

I remembered the frank conversation when my uncle explained how my father had suffered remorse in the circumstance of having fathered another son; me; and not having the resources to follow his heart’s desire, he had been so adversely affected during that period of time.

I remembered the absolute joy in my Melvin telling me at dinner that night that I had an uncle who was the top elected office holder in the fraternity so many friends had joined forces with, and the good times I had had in their fraternity house at N C State.

I remembered how my uncle had imposed on a colleague of his from the days of his tenure in our state legislature, for in doing so, had saved me from having to do thirty days for not paying my child support as directed by the court.

I remembered lastly standing in the foyer in the #&* Fraternity House in Athens, staring at the photo of my uncle delivering their charter; trying to imagine how I might resemble him in appearance, and wishing I could have been able to claim his kinship.

My second reaction was to disbelieve what some nameless-faceless asshole had just said about my uncle in his disparaging remark, as I had no reason whatsoever to believe what he had just said, because nothing about my uncle seemed effeminate, or prissy; because as my uncle spoke, even the crystal in the china cabinet in his dining room seemed to rumble and quake.

I now harbored a sincere genuine disgust for the man who made the remark; but chose to pretend the remark made that evening never took place; and decided then and there, to not even tell Susan, or anyone else for that matter.

Standing on the patio alone the brisk night air caused me to have a chill I had never experienced before, as a gruesome feeling began to manifest itself within me, that the stirrings within were harbingers of things to come, and would have to dealt with someday. My whole life long I had never thought particularly any jokes about gay guys; but the matter that began to haunt me was how could I ever get away seeing my uncle again, and not make mention of the terrible thing that had just been said about him; and yet, not sure I could stand to see the pain that news would have surely caused him upon hearing it.

Choosing not to walk back inside to re-join the party just yet it occurred to me the very first time my fear stemmed from the fact I had never told my dad, a cousin or an uncle, or any friend of my sex for that matter, that I loved them; and how much I truly appreciated having them in my life. In my own way, the love, admiration and respect for my uncle was as real as any love I had ever felt for anyone (but then I am not real sure I ever told a woman I loved her either); and yet knew my kinship, and love, for my uncle, dad, and a friend or two or three, was as great as any man can have for another person.

In reality, my fear was in knowing I loved my uncle. In reality, my fear was love. In reality, my fear was me.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Was undecided about assuming it would be worthwhile
to make a big deal about how provoking it is to hear
jocks, and musicians, and actors, and actresses, say,
‘You know’, ‘You know’, ‘You know’; over, and over, and over,
again in interviews.
Decided it would be worthwhile to make mention when,
Katie Couric said ‘you know’, 32 times in a 13 minute segment,
in a Charlie Rose telecast that aired the third week of January, 2010.
In retrospect, I can only assume, ‘You know what I’m saying’.

Before Jimmy & Dee & Susan & me ever saw the movie Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice, at The Plaza Theater, when it came out in 1969; without any one of us ever having to say out loud, we all knew we had come to the same conclusion as did the players in the movie, and that is: Friends are friends, and lovers are lovers, for perhaps we each already knew, in our own special way, that many times lovers, can no longer remain great friends.

Jimmy and me had come to a meeting of the minds long before then; and in doing so, had solidified our friendship, not to be undone, on a cold, damp, dreary, drizzly night many months before (but you will read about that later).

For those of you who have not seen the movie, the four close friends had considered swapping mates because of the confessed infidelity of one of the men; only to then realize they would each rather have each other as a friend, rather than a lover: And the comparison between the four of us was staggering as there was little doubt we liked each other as much as did the players in the movie.

It was in the first thirty minutes, or so, of the movie, that we join them after a party in one of their homes, after all the other invitees had taken their leave. In the scene, the drapes are drawn, and a substance taken out of its hiding place, loaded into a pipe, and smoked by all without anyone saying out loud what it was supposed to be.

I could still remember our whispers as we left The Plaza Theater that night, as we wondered whether they had really smoked some weed. The players had not been derelicts, but persons much like the four of us; but then neither of us had ever seen, or smelled, or smoked grass (Jimmy did not smoke at all). It had only been six years since I had seen the hippies walking around in Greenwich Village in some sort of daze from presumably smoking the stuff; and that was why I was never going to try smoking the stuff.

A few laps in the pool, and a couple more beers had helped me pass the time; but around five o’clock my new neighbors began straggling home, and many came to the pool as it was another hot August 4th. I had met Jerry Jenkins, our resident manager, any number of times, as our lunch crew and me, had accompanied Mr Vinson to the complex while it was under construction a number of times, and later when leasing efforts began.

Jerry had come to the pool by now, and saw to it introductions were made to many of my new neighbors. A small cluster of us were sitting and talking when one in the group asked, in his own funny sort of way, if anyone wanted to join him for a trip to his apartment; and to my surprise, everyone I was sitting with got up and hurriedly fell in behind as if he had suddenly become The Pied Piper. One of my new found friends, who was going along, whispered to me that they were going to smoke a joint, and if I did that sort of thing, I would be welcome to join in. Having a natural curiosity about the stuff, I fell in behind as if now entranced by ‘the beat of a different drummer’.

Within an hour I found it incredulous to discover no less than a full one third of my neighbors were pot smokers; and I felt a little disappointed in myself to realize I had been so naïve. It was still to be many weeks before I was to begin taking a toke or two; but was around it almost daily from that point on; and got used to the fact that when visiting those who did, because when it was being smoked the drapes were invariably drawn, incense burned, and the door remained locked until the voice of the person trying to gain entry was recognized by at least two of the people inside; as it was a felony to possess Marijuana in North Carolina at the time.

I made it a point to be the first to arrive at the office the next day, and typed a note that read, "As of yesterday Ken and Susan Wilson have separated. This has not been a hasty decision, and the separation is under the best of terms".

Vinson Realty Company had some three dozen full time people by then, and I was going to have none of the whispers filter through the office about my separation, and chose to put a notice on the company bulletin board in honcho's hall for everyone to see. That day I was the last to leave the office as well, and removed the notice at the end of the day. II

Eleven days after Susan and me separated my thirtieth birthday came and went; and my only reaction to that solemn event was that somehow thirty years had rolled around mighty fast; seemingly too fast. Accordingly, I made a vow to myself to make everyday count as never before, for it was clear I was now working in a field where all my dreams could be fulfilled. Better yet, The Tax Reform Act of 1969, enacted by Congress, was by now beginning to show what its impact was going to be on the market as the act, allowed developers, or first owners, to take double declining depreciation for any new commercial or industrial construction project. As a result, a new project was being announced almost weekly; meaning more than a fair share of new office buildings were going to be coming on line that would require top drawer leasing agents, and I was determined to be a factor in our market that would have to be reckoned with.

NAREB, The National Association of Real Estate Boards, whose offices are in Chicago, had mailed a notice they were going to be holding a seminar in The Shoreham Hotel in Washington, DC, in September; where one full week would be devoted to those who wanted to know more about the development, leasing and management of office buildings.

Mr Vinson summarily turned me down because the company would have to send Tom Ingram, the department head, if he were to send anyone.

Undaunted, I asked to take a week's vacation for that scheduled week in September, and having done that, implored another partner in The Park Seneca Office Building, a man named Tooge Breuninger, whose father had developed and owned what was rumored to be a thousand apartments in The District of Columbia, for a special deal on housing to save me that amount of money; and accomplishing that, was assured of being able to afford to make the trip. When Mr Vinson saw how intent I was on making the trip he offered to pay my expenses; which meant my total cost was only the wear and tear on my Pontiac, and a week of vacation.

CHAPTER FIFETEEN

John Berendt opens Chapter 1 in his non-fiction classic,
Midnight in The Garden of Good and Evil
“He was tall, about 50, with darkly handsome,
almost sinister features: a neatly trimmed moustache,
hair turning silver at the temples, and eyes so black
they were like the tinted windows of a sleek limousine -
he could see out, but you could not see in.”

Clint Eastwood, in his movie of the same name,
would have us believe the fatal shots was fired
after a Christmas Party Williams hosted. Not so.
Exactly eight years, and three months, from the day,
Jim Williams shot his young pot smoking friend in Berendt’s effort;
Susan’s second husband, the stunt double for Williams,
murdered her (he wore no moustache).
It is unlikely the young man’s passing in Berendt’s effort
evoked anywhere near as much pain and suffering
upon the good people of Savannah, Georgia,
as did Susan’s death, and her husband’s trial.

The Ervin Company had been formed some years earlier by a Charlotte man named Charlie Ervin, who had been a neighbor of mine living in the mouth of Boyd’s Cove, although we never met; who began modestly enough, as a small company that would build a clutch of homes, here and there. Charlie was however an ambitious man, and began developing even larger tracts into small communities with quality homes until at last his company had become a major force in the construction business in our city, as he soon passed John Crosland, to become our city’s most enterprising builder.

The giant American Cyanamid Company had taken notice of his small but growing firm, and in their effort to diversity traded Charlie Ervin reportedly $15,000,000 worth of their stock for his up and coming company (I spoke with a young man at The Drawbridge one night who had only been days away from offering The Ervin Company as an Initial Public Offering, making the stock available for anyone who wanted to take the plunge -- that is -- until American Cyanamid made their offer).

Having accomplished that, American Cyanamid began to pour cash money into their new venture at such a rate they began to draw attention to our hometown construction company; but gained even more national acclaim by putting young men in charge of every aspect of the company, all of whom considered themselves to the young lions of our industry; while only a handful of whom were old enough to remember the plight out country suffered through during the deflationary depression of the 1930’s.

The Residential Division took huge plots of land, and after a careful computer analysis was made assuring the company maximum use of ever square foot of land had been achieved; plans were made, and streets were cut. Underground systems for power and phone were installed after the water and sewer mains were constructed by the utility company that was many times owned by another subsidiary of our developing company itself.

In any projects apartments were built at its fringes by the Apartment Division; and then in the larger projects a shopping center was built that also wound up in the Commercial Division’s bailiwick. It was in the Commercial Division where I went to work, as our division also had the responsibility of developing office buildings, which in the case of Park 77, meant a three story building that would contain some 60,000 square feet of space for lease.

No one argued the point The Ervin Company was possibly the most ambitious such company this country had ever seen, as they were doing all these things from Maryland, down through Virginia, The Carolinas and Georgia; causing the company to mushroom as it continued to grow everyday.

I became the company’s leasing agent for the office space we had available; and rightfully assumed the sole responsibility as the Park 77 was nearing completion. My future was filled with promise as our new ten story Independence Tower Office Building was soon to come out of the ground; and would yet cast a giant shadow over two or three or four auto dealerships located on the Gold Coast by now.

The man who headed the leasing efforts for all the company’s commercial properties was Norman Carr; a fine, but somewhat simple man. Norman had never leased a square foot of office space; but had found his claim to fame by making a couple multimillion dollar deals with a discount store chain known as G C Murphy, which begat several shopping centers. The department heads of Ervin Commercial, as well, had no experience in leasing office space, save Paul Gibson, who was personally honchoing the development of The Independence Tower; which meant I was The Authority, giving me hope that I would eventually head a department of my own at some point in time.

I began immediately to test my mettle by requesting, and receiving, authority to hand pick an assistant who was to draw detailed plans for office space being negotiated for, to deliver and pick up items required for me to do my job efficiently, and do other odd jobs at my behest.

The second thing I did was to introduce myself to the Golf Pro at The Ervin Company’s Tega Cay community being built on the shores overlooking good old Lake Wylie; as it was my opinion that willing prospective clients should be treated to a round of golf on a championship course so they could see my company was not a fly-by-night operation (Tega Cay, some few years later, attained a certain amount of notoriety by being the community Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker chose to live, and where their pet had an air conditioned dog house).

My new office was only a couple blocks away from Bill Beck Pontiac/Mercedes Benz where my old friend Jimmy Barrier continued to hang his hat. Our close proximity rejuvenated our friendship as I had chosen not to be as close to the married friends as before; in large part, because I had begun dating a wonderful woman in February who lived about twenty miles away in Gastonia; and because I always had a funny feeling some of the wives did not want me to appear to be having too good of a time as that could conceivably cause some of their husbands to start thinking about the tint of the grass on the other side being, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. The exception to the rule had always been the camaraderie between Jimmy and Dee and me.

For some six years now our friendship had survived every hurdle, as there had not been one single solitary bad vibe between us in all those years; and seeing as how we are on the subject I will digress and tell you more about the man whose all-time favorite song was, Cast Your Fate to the Wind; who looked like the man you would expect to see on a United States Marine Corps recruiting poster; who named his only daughter Brandy; and who never used less than two, or three, or sometimes four, paper towels at one time, even when they were mine.

Susan's brothers were considerably younger than me, and while my admiration for them never faltered; it was Eddie O'Herron, and then Jimmy, whom I gauged standards of what having a brother would be like, for even The Bible says somewhere, " …., there is a friend who sticketh closer than a brother". There simply was never any doubt the feeling was mutual because Jimmy had no brothers either; but three gorgeous, likeable, sisters he relished being big brother to.

In looking back, our friendship had been solidified, not to be undone, one night many years before when he was tending to the duty of charcoaling nothing less than a feast for our wives, and our selves; and seeing as how it was his turn to treat that evening, he was leaning over the grill, trying to imagine what the innards of some steaks at least an inch and a half thick were looking like. It was a miserable night, in that the fog and drizzle was so heavy, it reminded me of a scene one would see, from time to time, of a freighter trying to ply the waters of the North Atlantic. It was such a lousy night I began to give some thought to going inside; but nixed that idea, because I was not going to be the first to break with tradition, and tough it out, as he had never abandoned me when I had the duty, even when the weather could have been just as bad. Surely anyone who would walk into hell, and back, with someone, could suffer through a few more minutes of bad weather.

Jimmy, knew as well as me, that trying to make meaningful conversation on such a hopelessly cold, damp, dreary, drizzly, bleak, shitty, shitty, night would not serve any useful purpose; for we both knew he had just turned the steaks, and there would be a good five or six minutes remaining, depending on their thickness - the time allotted to be, unquestionably, at the sole discretion of The Chef. It had been our tradition to always buy four steaks, the same size, and cut, in that there was always extra bite's from our wives cut, once they had eaten their fill; and we were not early eaters either, in that we each had had several drinks by that time, and now geared to enjoying a sumptuous meal. What was certain was the steaks being prepared were going to be the prettiest shade of pink you ever saw; and worthy of any Viking hearties who ever sat down to break bread with one another.

For some reason my mind flashed back to the time when I had dated the young woman you only know as Mae, and out of the blue, I brought her name up that night; causing Jimmy to have a peculiar smile come across his face as he brought her to mind. I joked that he might have remembered me telling him she and me had made a serious attempt in contesting, "The World's Record for Fun Fucks in a Twenty-Four Hour Period of Time", a record believed to be held by Mae West, and some Frenchman she picked up somewhere; for by throwing the towel in, Mae and me argued the human body could not take what we were putting our bodies through for twenty-four hours.

We enjoyed a hearty laugh, and out of the blue again, I reminded him Mae told me one time he had asked her out, when she and he were on the outs. Jimmy smiled again; cause he knew, we both knew, he had taken his best shot; and seeing as how he had failed to mention it to me, there was only one other source where my information could have come from. Jimmy knew that my only thinking that night had been to make an effort to being some light into that miserable night, and that was the only reason we both laughed.

Jimmy turned his attention back to the steaks as silence befell us again; but after another minute or so he spoke up, and stumbled through an apology that eventually ended with him saying he was sorry, as he knew there had been a time when I deeply cared for Mae; and may have realized I broke a date with Mae the night I proposed to Susan.

We stood there in silence for another moment in awe of what had just happened, in that my friend had just told me he was sorry; and that somehow staggered me in that there was never any recall of me, ever telling anyone, for any reason, that I was sorry about any damn thing I had ever done. After only another moment of silence Jimmy spoke up again, and using the solemn tone of voice he would have used in swearing an oath to Odin, ruefully aware that if he broke his pledge, his soul would never make it to Valhalla; he vowed to never take a shot at Susan. We stood there for a moment, facing each other in the mist, alone, and I swore the same oath: and as the ice in our drinks chimed in their witness, Jimmy and me shook hands with the grip of friendship that can only take place between two friends who would walk into hell, and back, for each other.