Dear Little Lady Love

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Bear with me as we review a segment of the CBS telecast of
BIG BROTHER on the 5th of August, 2000;
where we join the young woman whose hair color changed,
from show to show, with the same predictability as Oak tree leaves
in October, who was seen sitting at their dining table
with the two dudes who came in #2 and #1 respectively,
thereby best of the lot, and winners of the lion’s share of the gold.
This is a verbatim account of the one minute ensuing chat,
giving only her lines, as her dim-witted housemates chose to sit
and giggle, rather than trade tit-for-tat by asking,
as would have then been their right, about her sexuality.
She begins, “I am always thinking
those (Playgirl centerfold models) are gay anyway …. . …. .
Have either one of you, ever had, like, a gay experience at all? …. .
Not even close!
You?
OK, if two girls, doin’ things to each other, (giggling)
it seems like it is socially acceptable, and they just think,
Oh, I was interested, and just wanted to try it,
and they’re still straight;
but if two guys do things to each other,
I think even once, they’re like,
Oh my God, he’s gay!
Don’t you think that society looks at it that way?”

"Puss" came into my life that January; as the fracas and fray of the New Year’s Eve Party had kept me so busy that night that I had not remembered seeing her; but her second visit came on a very slow week night a few days later. Puss was being escorted by some bucko she was working with on Sugar Mountain, and as we spoke that evening I learned she had only some days before begun working there as a cashier.

Puss had worked for some months in one of the famed HHI resorts (Hilton Head Island, South Carolina, as residents like to refer to their island); where the chill of winter had caused her to look for other pastures, and having an entrée on Sugar Mountain, she opted to go to work there. Her tan complimented her long hair, and she radiated health and youth and beauty and charm by displaying a zest for life I found refreshing: And I liked her from the gitgo. When out and about she wore some king of large hat, that as often as not had a large floppy brim, and just like Scarlet O’Hara (Margaret Mitchell writes Gerald O’Hara’s pet name for his darlin’ daughter was Puss), with a twist of her head, or a crook of her neck, could hide her eyes, which could abruptly make one feel like one was standing alone. It had been her ability to look me in the eye that intrigued me, and drawn me to her from the beginning, causing me to pursue her like an alter ego.

We had dinner served that next night in my bar, as business had been so slow I had to let my bar manager go; and I finally drove home at two or three in the morning with a set of love nuts that were causing me so much pain I was careful to take only slow, steady steps, until I fell into my bed; and relieved the pressure.

That next night, however, was my night; and from that night on she began spending most nights with me in the Tamarack Cabin; while still maintaining the small one bedroom condominium she was renting on Sugar Mountain, that was furnished, but as drab and dreary (and not much larger), than the best of the ladies lounges I had had to inspect from time to time, when I was a big shot real estate man in Charlotte.

The ski season of 1975 was already showing signs of being the worst ski season on record, as the excitement brought on by the 18” snowfall the Saturday after Thanksgiving had long since dissipated. The Sugar Mountain Property Owner’s Association, headed up by my old friend Jim Cogdell, had just begun their meeting in The Lodge that Saturday afternoon when the snow began to fall, causing excitement to mount the coming ski season was destined to be the best ever.

It was the closest thing to a blizzard I had ever seen. The view from The Lodge was all but whited out as swirls of snow rarely broke long enough to enable those there to be able to see only partial views of the restaurant, barn and the Tamarack Log Cabin; but not much more. The beauty and ado brought on by an unrelenting snow storm invigorated the members participating in the meeting so much that frank talk prevailed, leaving them unaware that some four or five inches of snow had fallen in the couple hours their meeting had been taking place (the resort was already in financial trouble, and they had a lot to talk about).

Dusk was closing in as the meeting concluded, causing many members to try valiantly to make their exit up the steep incline on the other side of the bridge before they could access Highway 184; while others chose to relax and enjoy the view, as they were relying on being picked up, and delivered home, by members of The Sugar Mountain Staff in the resort’s four wheel drive vehicles.

One man had imagined his new Mercury Colony Park station wagon could negotiate the ridge on the other side of the bridge; but was surprised to find a car already stalled, which of course, blocked him from making his exit. Not dismayed, he imagined if he could back his new jalopy back around the curve in the drive he had just negotiated, and wind up in the parking lot on my side of the bridge, meaning he would be able to get another running start that would allow him to make his exit out the other end of our drive onto Highway 184; but trying to do so, the man slid out of the icy ruts from having to back his car around an upper corner in the drive, and slid his car off to one side of the drive just short of the bridge making it hopelessly irretrievable without the help of a wrecker.

The man finally gave up, and rather than sit in his car, he and his wife graciously accepted my invitation to wait out the arrival of the wrecker in the Tamarack Cabin so they would not have to be searched out once the wrecker arrived. When my old buddy OXPYSJTQ learned from me our guest was not only a prominent business man from our hometown, but a member of the Board of Directors of First Union National Bank as well; my partner opted to entertain the man and his wife in the warmth of the cabin, rather than assist me in freeing up the man’s new station wagon from the snowdrift it was now bogged down in: And that was the good news.

The bad news was, when the bumpkins arrived, about an hour later, they impressed me as having about the same intellect as the boys Burt Reynolds, Jon Voight, and Ned Beatty had to cope with in the opening scenes of the recent hit film “Deliverance”; and I had this eerie feeling it was not going to end well, because they were driving the biggest ‘piece-of-shit-home-made-wrecker’ I had ever seen.

They began by backing the wrecker around the top end of the snow covered drive, braking as soon as they had accomplished that, leaving the wrecker about 15 feet above, and away from the station wagon. After chocking the wrecker wheels they reeled out enough cable to reach the front of the car; and having attached the cable, the show of shows began.

The ruts in the drive had frozen by now, which caused the wrecker to begin its slide down the drive, as the chocks did not hold, into the front end of the new Mercury, smashing in its grill, and bowing its hood a bit. That impact then caused the mass of machines to slide a few feet further down the drive which then caused the brand new wood sided Colony Park to have its tail gate metal rear end cave in from coming to rest against the abutment of the bridge; and seeing as how the left front tire was already on the outside of the rut, the wrecker-car combination then jack-knifed causing the beautiful new station wagon to then come to rest with body damage done to the left side of the car from now being in the ditch on the side of the drive.

I could barely keep a straight face as I entered the cabin to tell the man what had just happened to his station wagon; but can still remember the man mumbling to himself as he and his wife were climbing into the old Jeep Wagoneer that was going to deliver them safely back to their Sugar Mountain home, imagining he would have much preferred TJQXPSOY puckering a little less on his ass, but had given a little more help trying to free his Mercury from the snow.

In any event, the man never did show his gratitude by ever returning to our peaceful valley again.

While the snow had paralyzed just about all the going's on in the mountains that weekend, the field mice had been unimpressed; and had found their way into the cabin's kitchen in droves, for after I went to bed that night, I could hear the little critters moving about as they foraged for food in my kitchen, as my kitchen was directly below the head of my king sized bed. A waitress who worked in my bar, who I had stayed over with a time or two (before she came to work for me), responded to my phone call that next day; and rather than loan me her cat, told of a grey tabby she had seen roaming the dumpsters in her apartment complex in Boone.

The little guy quickly settled my mouse situation, and proved it by bringing his kills for me to review. I was so pleased with his performance that I decided to keep him on board, naming him accordingly, "JB", duly making the announcement he was an Executive Vice President at Tamarack; and was in charge of 'Pussy' and 'Mice', with the understanding, he could call on me for any help he might need if any of the afore mentioned critters ever turned out to be larger than he. Our arrangement proved to be a good working relationship for a long time; as well as a source of much laughter among my friends and patrons.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Have you yet tried to imagine why a man with only one year experience in the U S Senate would have the audacity to imagine he could become President of The United States. Let me fill you in on how it worked out for Barack Obama to win the nomination of his Democrat Party, and his presidency.

To wit, on Wednesday Morning, February 6, 2008, the day after Super Tuesday; a film crew found Hillary having a cup of coffee, and we hear a reporter ask the Junior Senator from New York why some people ‘do not think her as likeable as Barack Obama’. Hillary almost came to tears as she found herself at a loss for words trying to answer; as we now know her candidacy had been predicated on the premise she would be a shoo-in for the nomination, and no one would doubt she was to be the candidate by the Wednesday after Super Tuesday because she had won all but one, or maybe two, of the state primaries so far.

Sometime later that day, as more poll counts were confirmed, Barack Obama realized he could scuttle her run, had at least a 50/50 chance of winning the nomination; and chose to deliver the knockout blow, saying, and I quote, “The Republican Party will have a ‘dump truck full of dirt’ to unload on Hillary Rodham Clinton if the former first lady wins the Democratic Presidential Nomination”. Did not think much about it at the time, as I was too busy scribbling notes on sounds bites heard on TV all that day; while all along sensing something extraordinary was happening.

It has been my contention from day one BHO entered the race because he did not believe HRC would be able to win the nomination without first addressing the matter that there are a ‘handful of men and women’ who perceive her to be a gay lady; and if my assumption is correct (about ‘the dump truck full of dirt’ the GOP has on Hillary), that would explain why Barack chose not to ask her to be his running mate once he won the nomination (which many believed would have made the race for the presidency to be nothing more than a formality).

Now no one, certainly not me, is trying to deny anyone of their “God-Given-Right”, to live their life anyway they choose; but why in the world would anyone imagine a gay lady, should that ever be the case, running for the Presidency of the United States, ever expect to be treated any differently than a man in the race perceived to be gay?

It was that ‘handful of men and women’ who cost Hillary the nomination of her party, and the presidency: And it is that same ‘handful of men and women’ who are the primary market for
Dear Little Lady Love.

A friend from Beech Mountain, had within the past year, been made General Sales Manager in a land development tract in New Bern, North Carolina, that was known as Treasure Cove. The parent company was Great Northern Development Corporation, and had begun to develop three projects; one in DuBois, Pennsylvania; another not far from Atlanta, and the one I speak of that is located on the Neuse River that spreads out to form The Pamlico Sound in North Carolina’s coastal region.

Westinghouse Credit had financed the developing company, as well as many of the land sales contracts through their credit subsidiary; and when Great Northern went tits up, they felt a responsibility to its customers to complete the project in accordance with The HUD Property Report. Westinghouse had imagined the project would soon become a thriving community. The good news was Treasure Cove already had its own million dollar club house, where meals were served every day that afforded diners the view of being able to look over docks that had been dug into canals so deep, on its back side, where boats could be secured that could circumnavigate the globe if the captain had balls that big. A PGA quality golf course was already completed; as well as swimming pools, riding stables, and tennis facilities; all of which were properly lighted, and protected by a security force that worked morning, noon and night to safeguard its denizens from the riff-raff, and the problems, they can cause when living in the city. The bad news was times were so tough there were less than a half dozen homes constructed at that point in time.

The lavish club house was in full operation; and the golf course was playable with splendid turf and greens that were lush far beyond what one might expect for their short time of existence. A marina that would rival the best in any residential community in Florida was only being dug out at this point in time, meaning the sales people were having to show a drawing of what it would look like, in an effort to conjure up images of one sitting on the deck at the bar overlooking the docks, as resplendent vessels would pull in to tie up; only then to have theirs captains scour the area in an effort to hunt out ship mates for the impending voyage to Martha’s Vineyard, Hilton Head Island, or beyond.

All of this beauty was spread out over hundreds of acres, with miles and miles of streets that were bordered with thousands of uniformly cut stakes sitting squarely on the streets boundary line of each piece of property, that were capped with blue and yellow and red plastic streamers tied at their tops. The yellow streamer meant the survey work had been completed, the blue streamer gave notice that all water and sewer mains were in, and the red streamer meant this particular piece of property was for sale assuring the buyer that construction of a home could begin on any given day; and all this available for a minimal down payment.

I traveled to New Bern to see this haven of peace, and speak with my old friend Carroll Ellington. Carroll and me played the golf course; and afterwards, he gave me the full spiel I would have to be able to master in order to be successful in selling land parcels there; and only then, offered me a job.

I returned to Banner Elk to wind up the few affairs I had there, loaded a U-Haul trailer with my few belongings; and set out, with Puss, one morning for the long ride to the coast. As we were leaving JB showed up, as he decided he would come along too; and I was glad to have him, since he had done such a splendid job as a past Executive Vice President at Tamarack, and even though his job description would be halved, there may well be some mice he might have to deal with at my rented cottage in New Bern.

We arrived late one evening, and moved into the stucco bungalow on the end of the peninsula, less than a mile or so past the entrance into Treasure Cove; where The Neuse River, which was less than a hundred feet from our screened in porch, afforded an awe inspiring and relaxing view.

I began work that very next morning on the sales force as Puss busily set about showing a domesticity I had never seen in her before, as she transformed our little bungalow into a clean and charming place to live; as JB, in an effort to earn his keep, began patrolling the area doing his thing. I had implored Melvin for a thousand dollar loan, which he sent, enabling me to get the hang of my sales pitch before being run out of town on vagrancy charges. The wonder of it all was for the very first time, in a lot of years, I was happy now that the stress of a failing company was off my shoulders. Puss had never been prettier, and was happier than I had ever seen her before; and we began to look forward to me sneaking away from the sales office to steal away home, as my lunch break had become a special time.

As the days passed it seemed to me we were living out the scenario of a black and white movie of the 40’s vintage, that might have starred Gable and Lombard. Ours was, we felt, destined to become one of the great love stories of our time; a story about two people who had fallen from the heights, as Puss had bore a child out of wedlock while in high school that she spoke of from time to time; But were now trying to recover by drying out after a bout with the booze, and the smoke, and the pills.

The early Fall days were bright and warm, and at other times hot and humid; but the man who owned the cottage next door gave us permission to use his pier that stretched into The Neuse River some 150 feet, as the water was only some five feet deep that far out. More than once I arrived home during the day to find Puss basking in the sun, topless, at the end of our next door neighbor’s pier, as she was in her element again, and her tan returned. Me chiding her for her brazen behavior always went unheeded, as the channel of the river was probably a half mile out at that point; and the railing of the benches built on the rear side of the dock at the end of the pier almost certainly shielded her from prying eyes of the denizens in the cottages on shore. A silly grin would come upon her face each time when I told her that yet another car had showed up at one of the other cottages up the way, and that she could be sure our neighbors were trying to get a view of her firm round perky breasts through their best, or no doubt in some cases, new binoculars.

The reality was I had not yet made a sale, after several weeks working the line, as the project was only averaging three or four sales a week that did not back out after the buyers had arrived home, and came out from under the ether. As a result we lived frugally, but enjoyed wholesome home cooked meals; and would splurge at least one night a week and go the Treasure Cove Club House bar for a drink or two in the downstairs bar, where we would sit at a table that afforded us a view of the docks, usually alone; except for the barkeep, who rarely stirred from watching TV. As Fall approached, the nights became cooler with the nip that always fills the air; but that only meant we would sleep closer together so the heat our bodies exuded could help keep us warm.

Some four or five weeks passed, and sales remained disastrously low, as each week brought a new face, or two, to our sales force as other new men had come to work thinking Treasure Cove was the place where the rainbow touched the earth; while others disappeared after only a few days never to be seen, or heard from, again, as there was no pot of gold to be found at the rainbow's end.

Carroll Ellington, his room mate who was another co-hort of ours, and me, had played the golf course one afternoon; and completing our round, adjourned to my cottage to join Puss and me for a highball. Puss had taken my car into New Bern that afternoon for something or another, and returned about dusk in the worst mood I had ever seen her in. My associates took the hint that all was not well, and soon departed, as I struggled to try to find out what could have happened to cause her to turn into the wicked witch of the west.

That evening Puss told she had tired of the solitude of our new life, and began talking about returning to Banner Elk. Her story remained the same for several more days, making it clear nothing I could say was going to make any difference. A day later, maybe two, as I am no longer sure; I paid her airfare with my American Express Card, put her on a plane in Kinston, North Carolina; and once again, it was just JB, and me.

My nights became lonely again, but were soon disrupted by the howls of a young black female feline who had taken to hanging around my little bungalow, where each night, for nights on end, she would cry and howl for JB to come out and play, or do whatever it is cats do at night when on the prowl. It did not take but a few nights to get real bored with the ruckus the new cat was making, and I reminded my tabby, as I talked to him from time to time, having found a new source for my smoke, that he put her on notice her commotion was going to have to end.

The cat's whines soon got to be too much; so one day I chose to rectify the situation by giving JB's new friend a ride to a place where there were a cluster of houses, and kids, a mile or so past the entrance to Treasure Cove; and things returned to normal again.

Some three or four days later JB walked off, perhaps in the hope of finding his lady friend, never to return; meaning then, it was just me.

It just never occurred to me I could, or would, ever love a cat; and looking back again, I cannot remember seeing any woman more than once or twice who had cats, because I did not like cats. But I missed JB terribly; and soon came to terms with the reality, it was now, just me.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

A few days before I went to see Mr Vinson I traveled back into the mountains to try to find Puss, to see if she wanted to move
to another state, where we could begin a new life together.

Seems my sweetie now lived in a three story town house on the other side of the hollow, and Highway 105, that was the apple of her eye; complete with a regulation pool table downstairs,
along with a well stocked bar of mini bottles:
made even more beguiling by a gurgling stream
out her back door adding to its ambiance.

Seems my sweetie had turned pro.

The most noticeable difference was Mitch Clark’s residential rentals department had finally outgrown the space he had been allotted, and had moved further down South Church Street by opening a hole in the wall to take in the space I had leased some years earlier to the Italian who had set up one of Charlotte’s first tonsorial parlors that specialized in making men look like they had just stepped out of the pages of Gentlemen’s Quarterly, where each hair had been carefully coifed, and combed neatly into place. The cashier area which had always been just inside the front door had also been moved into the same additional space down the block as the company had bought a new accounting system that was said to be light years ahead of the system that had been used since the company’s founding. The receptionist and switchboard now took the space the cashier had always had, and all in all, the new arrangement worked out to be a much nicer looking reception area than had been the case when I worked within the company some five years before.

I sat there thumbing through a magazine that early afternoon, and laughed out loud when I realized the blue blazer I was wearing was the same blazer I had popped the center button off of as a result of having to climb through a rear window of an old shop building on East 8th Street I wound up leasing that same day to a sign painter named Julio Guerra.

Feeling duly embarrassed, I hoped no one had seen me laugh, and pretended to be immersed in the article my magazine was opened to, for I now also remembered the lining in the right sleeve was pinned up at top of the shoulder.

As the time arrived I had been told I could see Mr V, his secretary of all those years again came out front to collect me, and after displaying her usual big smile, asked how I had been; as if she knew I did not have as much as five dollars in my pocket.

There really was not much to talk about; in that I was not going to bore Mr V by telling him about my losses: So I took the first few minutes, after exchanging our opening pleasantries, to explain papers were being filed within days that would bankrupt me of some $81,798.49 I had accrued in bad debts. The good news was I owned an old car that was paid for, had room and board in my mom’s house; but in the same sentence I quickly added that if he could find a job slot for me, he would again not be disappointed in my work.

We chatted for a right long time that early afternoon until Mr V concluded our conversation by telling me he would see if he could figure out somewhere to put me, and told me he would let me hear from him soon; and I left.

A few days later Eddie phoned to tell me his dad would see me again, and told me when to arrive.
My appointment time came that day, and again I was led into Mr V’s office by Ermine Wilkinson, only this time I sat in the chair facing the door with my back to the wall where the painting of Mr V piloting his cruiser was displayed. Very little conversation ensued as my mentor took a piece of scratch paper out of its holder, that was like all the other ones on everyone’s desk in the office; and wrote the figure 850 at its top, multiplying that number by 12 which produced a figure of 10,200; and to that he added 1,200 which was noted as being car allowance. He then added those figures to make a sum total of 11,400; and beside that he wrote, 90 days. All this done, Mr V handed me the slip of paper, asking if there were any questions, and there were none. I was then I could report for work that coming Monday, and at that time my job assignment would be given, as he had not yet decided which department to put me in as yet.

I stood, we shook hands, and thanked him as I left. On the way out of his office I folded the piece of paper and put it in my wallet, for my reference only; as we both knew my mentor knew exactly what he had said; and I could bank on that.

Now I am not going to trouble you with a recap of the past five years of my life, but if you would like to see again what the events were that led to me getting my first job with Vinson Realty Company you might refer back to the first box that appears in the first few pages of CHAPTER TWELVE to see what the tally looks like there.

As bad as things were, I knew I had been given a reprieve for a full 90 days, and all I had to do was to collect my wits about me, and again attempt to rejoin the living in that I could have absolute faith in the man who owned the company I was working for again.

My hope had been renewed.

I reported to work at 8:30 sharp that Monday morning, and was again assigned to the Commercial Department. Tom Ingram was still there, but his department had expanded, too, as Mr Vinson had hired a young man named Rick Porter who now appeared to be the heir apparent.

Vinson Realty Company had recently taken over as Exclusive Leasing Agency for the old North Carolina National Bank Building in the second block of South Tryon Street, and that was where my office was to be; as NCNB had just moved into its new forty story office building standing on the Southeast corner of The Square, and taking up most of the entire block. The bank's new cavernous lobby now engulfed the area where The Tryon Theater once stood, as that was where I had spent so many Saturday mornings watching The Kiddy Shows as a much younger person; and about the same place where the pop corn machine had stood inside the front door of S H Kresge Five and Dime, on The Square, there now stood a bronze disk that rotated once a day that was said to weight something like fifteen tons.

I had abhorred the thought of again leasing office space, but kept my thoughts to myself out of sheer gratitude for being able to again come back on board with Vinson Realty Company.

It was only a matter of days, however, that I received the news that put me years ahead of the best schedule I could have imagined for myself. Eddie Vinson, Jr, still the free spirit he had always been, was going to be out of the office for the next two years; and his absence created an opening in the Industrial Department which Al Kirby, with Mr Vinson's approval, offered me; and on the same day Eddie left the company, I moved into the office he had just vacated on Honcho Hall, which put me on the same corridor with Al, our old friend Paul Gibson, who had left yet another bankrupt firm, and the end offices occupied by John Rosebro, and Mr V.

Mr Vinson offered me the three year old, top of the line, Pontiac Grand Ville Eddie had driven as his company car, allowing me to pay its $1,400 wholesale value with my $100 monthly car allowance. My spirits were again beginning to soar as things were looking up again; but rather than press my luck, I settled for decommissioning my $200 Cadillac at the side curb of my mom's home, cause I still had some 70 odd days to go.

In an effort to show my gratitude I worked smarter and more diligently than ever before, and my good fortune continued to abound as Mr V announced at one of our City Club luncheons one day, he was giving me the slot of working with The Economic Development Department of First Union National Bank; as there had been a lot of talk on the street lately about the man from Texas the bank brought in to head their department. I was fearful at first that Jim Glenn might not be so willing to work with me if he should learn the bank had had to foreclose on my Tamarack Cabin, or hear of the additional $10,528 in charge off's his bank had had to eat because of my bankruptcy; but after our first meeting, maybe two, I felt secure in being able to believe if he had been informed, he was not concerned, as he was not trying to run the whole damn bank.

I was beginning to really get my teeth into my work again, and like the prodigal son, was feeling so extraordinarily secure that I was home again, I began to make mention, from time to time, when speaking with persons on the phone who knew what had happened, anytime Mr V was within earshot.

Part of my job was to assume Eddie's assignment of handling lease renewals on most of the smaller industrial properties the company managed for various landlords; having to settle for the leftovers, as Al naturally took his pick of the prospects he wanted to work with personally. My good rapport with Al was getting better all along as well, as he had begun to take me on some of the calls he was making; and that was notable, in that Al had accompanied Mr Vinson on earlier trips in earlier days of the company, when Mr V was still making calls. Al had, as department head, become a major contender in his own right in the industrial real estate field in Charlotte and North Carolina, putting together any number of multi-million dollar sales. II

My efforts to rebuild my life were going very well, and again I had the money to treat myself to a night out from time to time. My old friends Jerry and Pat Jenkins had decided to go their separate ways; and Jenks had begun playing in a larger room in a club where the lady who owned the place would allow me to visit without having to pay the entrance tab knowing that Jenks and me were good friends; and that I was going to buy a couple beers.

Every once in a while I would arrange a tête-à-tête with a lassie there, and adjourn to Jenks house where my lady friend would steady me as I stood leaning over the edge of the four foot high stoop at his front door steps, so I could reach out and grab hold of the stanchion of the window frame which had the sprung latch, and with an alley-oop, pull myself out on the window ledge where I could then pry the window open to its widest point; and having done so, go through the contortions of slithering through the open window, while half drunk, and always smoked up. Most ladies must have thought I looked as brave and daring as Douglas Fairbanks, Sr, in the movies he had starred in in much earlier days; while the disparity was, instead of fighting to defend her honor, I was, …. , well, whatever.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

On January 10, 2000, I taped a PBS American Experience telecast
wherein we were told FDR and his mom built Eleanor a home
in Hyde Park on the premise she would not ask Franklin for a divorce;
as Franklin aspired to run for the presidency.
Eleanor found letters from Lucy Mercer to her husband proving her private secretary and FDR were having an ongoing affair.
There is reason to believe Lucy Mercer
was the love of Franklin’s life, as she was by his side,
when he passed in Warm Springs, Georgia, on April 12, 1945.

The film showed a bevy of Eleanor’s friends who visited there,
and made no pretense to deny our First Lady was lesbian,
as love letters to and from her closest companion were also featured.

On January 16, 2006, a new PBS American Experience telecast
aired that had deleted every reference to Eleanor
being a lesbian lady; and would have us believe
our former First Lady was as sainted as Mother Teresa.

My concern is, “Why would anyone want us to believe
a gay lady any less gay than a gay man,
or entitled to one whit more regard.”
What is certain is there will not be any parity
between the sexes until this issue is resolved.

The peace of mind from being a home owner filled me with a heretofore unknown joy and contentment; and as a result, my stride became longer and livelier.

As summer arrived my slot in the Industrial Department began taking on a whole new dimension, for I wound up selling several small buildings Mr Vinson owned that would have been too high priced for investor appeal, in that the square foot rental price would have been so much higher above the prevailing market rental price for comparable buildings before it could earn a good return, that it would have not been viable for anyone other than an owner/user. Best yet, each of those sales were financed at a commercial lending rate, causing my bonnet to gain a new feather each time in the form of glowing remarks made by the man who owned the company; the man who had given me a second chance.

Things continued to improve that summer as Jim Glenn brought me in on a First Union National Bank prospect they were working with that wanted to buy a site where they could build a plant where they could manufacture pollution control equipment; and Charlotte was one of the three areas the company was considering.

American Precision Industries was moving along in the decision making process slowly, but methodically; in that they were going to be making a huge capital investment, and in doing so, wanted to be sure they had chosen the best possible site. The company was already considering a site in Tennessee, another in The Research Triangle of The Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill area in up state North Carolina; which in many ways had already put Charlotte in third place in the running.

The Buffalo, New York, firm first wanted to see buildings containing fifty thousand square feet that were available, and then sites that also afforded heaving industrial zoning that had railroad access which were requirements for their manufacturing process. Their first visit to Charlotte went very well, and the second trip found them seeming to show more interest until finally, on the third trip, they told of having narrowed their choices down to two different sites I was proposing in Arrowwood Industrial Park.

By late August the Buffalo firm made an offer for 13.4 acres on Goodrich Drive that was owned by Mr Vinson, and several other investors of his, on the condition, “ …. test borings were favorable ….”, and that they had, “ …. the right not to conclude the purchase if it deems for any reason …. “, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah; but it was business, and the owners accepted their offer by signing their offer, and allowing me to return it.

One of the pharmacists who had worked in the neighborhood drug store where I grew up brought a brand new blue and white '55 FORD Fairlane 500, which was their top of the line car; and every couple weeks he would allow me to drive his new car to my folks house, where for one dollar, I would wash, and vacuum, and clean the windows, in that beautiful FORD; and once I had finished, the car sparkled, and looked like it had just been driven off the show room floor.

My real motive all along had been to detour the back streets of Plaza Hills for a good fifteen minutes before delivering the car back to its rightful owner, which of course, made the joy of that ride well worth the extra effort and sweat I had given to cause the car to gleam.

In any event, my admiration for my pharmacist friend was real; and as many other people did, even more so back then, I often relied on his good advice for answers to questions about my personal health and hygiene that did not seem important enough to visit Dr Frank L Wilson, whose office was on the corner of the other side of Mecklenburg Avenue across from Plaza Presbyterian Church.

About three years before I had again stopped in to see my friend to explain there was a woman I had been dating who had begged off several times by accounting for her heretofore unknown frigidity as being something she called Herpes. My white smocked friend could easily see my concern, and explained the disease was a condition that was almost as prevalent among women as the common cold, and while I had no idea what a yeast infection was, he made no mention of her herpes being any more consequential to the male as a yeast infection, or menstrual period. He went on to say that women would find intercourse to be somewhat painful when suffering an outbreak; then suggested, as a smile broke out on his face, that when the condition prevailed, I should be considerate enough to not indulge in intercourse. I would have been decidedly better served if he had gone to the trouble to tell me what my dick was going to look like if I were to ever contract Genital Herpes myself.

At the very beginning of that summer I discovered I was again dating a woman who had Herpes, only this time she was said to be unaware of her affliction; and not being so lucky this time, I contracted the disease myself. The blisters in the skin of my penis were unmistakable; and a visit to her physician produced an immediate diagnosis with him taking only a glance. The kindly grey haired old gentleman then sat back in his chair, and explained that even though there was little or nothing that could be done about the disease I now had; there was hope; as he assured me the prognostication was bright, in that much study and research was being done, that would surely result in an effective remedy soon.

Looking back now I can see how much it meant to me to think that a cure would indeed come along at any time; and I began going through the motions each day of taking care of business, and the things that had to be done. The sad reality was other reports I heard were telling me my life would never be quite the same again.

It was then I discovered good towels had a smooth and rough side; and was careful, from that point on, to always use the smooth side to dry my face and body; and the rough side to dry my ass, and then my genitalia. At first there had been only one blister and break in the skin, but then another blister and break would appear, and then another, and another, after an earlier break would dry up; and it finally got to the place a simple trip to the toilet caused me undue angst.

I can still vividly remember many times starting the process and not looking down, but gazing straight ahead, bending and contorting my body, trying to shake my penis out of my boxer shorts and trousers using my thumbs inside the zippered opening; all the while cloistered within the confines of an enclosed toilet where one would go to do a 'bad job', which is what my mom always wanted me to call taking a dump. Back then, I hated to have to take a leak, and many times wondered if other users of the toilet might wonder why I felt the need to relieve myself in an enclosed stall.

At the conclusion of the ordeal I would spend no less than a full minute washing my hands in as hot and soapy water as I could stand out of fear I might nonchalantly jam a finger into my nose, or pry a sesame seed loose between my teeth with my index finger.

The fact remained, the grotesque appearance of the purple contamination eating away at me filled me with terror; and I could imagine that like the effects gangrene would have, the end of my dick would fall off someday soon; as the first months of suffering the affliction are the worst.

The days turned into week, and at any given time during a meeting, or a meal, I could sense that blood was now coursing through other capillaries, having taken a new direction from the capillaries that no longer existed from being eradicated by my infection; but worst of all, there were times when my dick looked like it had been run over by a ¾ ton pick up truck.

For some reason a scene from a movie I had seen many years before kept coming to mind to haunt me, as I could vividly remember Ronald Reagan lying in bed, and then discovering his legs and feet had been surgically removed; and at times, my grief was almost unbearable. Every time I was suffering an outbreak I felt as if I was sporting a huge black eye, making my countenance not so bright; but the fact remained, when the blisters and breaks in the skin were there, they were there; and when they weren't, they weren't.

The months eventually became a year, but during that first year the breaks in the skin, with their obnoxious discoloration, were seemingly there as often as not, as the reality was; when the blisters and breaks in the skin were there, they were there; and when they weren't, they weren't.

The sad fact is everyone realizes sniffles and sneezes precede a bad cold; but another sad fact is that at any given time a spot would begin to become sensitive on my penis, just as a fever blister precedes its arrival on one's lip, for those who have ever suffered one (which is a form of Herpes itself); and just like clockwork, within another twelve or twenty four hours a blister would appear that would turn into a break in the skin. The reality was that within any given day, or so, that first year, they could show up; but as well, within another five or six or seven days, go away again.

It was during that time that one or two of the women I had dated began to wonder about me, for not assuming as I had so successfully in the past, that she were going to be staying the night, and taking them to my bed. One lady in particular, had stopped by to visit one early evening, and took an unbelievable jab, which I let slide off, as I was not willing to tell anyone I had Genital Herpes.

After the first year or two the common cold proved to be more of a deterrent to my sex life than my Herpes was; but the reality was, that in any given period of time I could get away from it all, and find comfort in getting high, again allowing my pot to shore up my suffering ego at the end of the day; everyday.

My only gratification was not once, ever; did a woman ever come to me, complaining she had contracted the dreaded disease from having it transmitted to her by any callous indignation inflicted by me; ever.

III

In September Mr V bought a '78 Cadillac; and again sold me his two year old Buick Electra 225 (deuce and a quarter, as the local colored folk used to call them) which featured Limited Trim, and all the other bells and whistles. What made it such an exceptional buy was it only had 19,004 miles on it when I took delivery (Mr V had let me buy his '69 Buick Electra 225 in '71); and again Mr V allowed me to sign a note for the full $4,500 amount payable to the company.

I was beginning to bristle with enthusiasm feeling I could do no wrong.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

“Some of my pleasantest hours were during the long rainstorms
in the spring or fall, which confined me to the house
for the afternoon as well as the forenoon,
soothed by their ceaseless roar and pelting;
when an early twilight ushered in a long evening in which
many thoughts had time to take root and unfold themselves”.

Reprinted from Walden

by Henry David Thoreau

It rained.

Not one of those silly unrelenting grey drizzles people in the Pacific Northwest endure day, after day, after day; but a torrential downpour, where rain was coming down in sheets, as hundreds of raindrops appeared to splash on the wet concrete patio at virtually the precise same moment in time. Two fronts were colliding as I sat looking out my window, and the panorama it afforded me over the rooftops of the other condominiums in the complex became a spectacle as the lightning bolts broke through the clouds, and then crescendo, with such deafening thunderclaps they shook small objects sitting on my heavy oak tables. I was enthralled by the beauty of the pageant; and did not stir until the last raindrops fell, and the show moved on.

I sat there in shock and awe.

Not as much from the extravaganza that had just taken place; but having to come to grips with my life being in shambles, painfully aware I was facing the crisis of my life I may well not survive. My blacklisting had been so complete I now knew I would never again be allowed to participate in any profession other than just being a pitch man; a flea market carney barker, if you will.

The only thing that made any sense what that the cannabis I so dearly loved had fueled the scandal that now raged about me. The same smoke that had brought me out of the doldrums of divorce, and given me a reason to smile and laugh again was in reality the nemesis that brought me down. The marijuana that had seen me through such tough times, when flat busted broke; the same smoke that had anesthetized me from the pain of failed business ventures and finding out the word of so many persons was not worth a square of toilet tissue; the same reefer that had been both comforter and company to me, now only blurred the reality of what happened; and in the end, the nemesis that brought me down. My inability to buckle under to the necessity of having to disprove the unspeakable tale raging about me had seemed insurmountable causing me to demurely huddle away, appearing to be ‘unmanly’, which is, as one would suspect, another definition for, effeminate.

Believing my dependence on marijuana to be the sole reason for me being in my appalling situation I walked to the bottom of the hill behind my condominium complex, and threw my hand size golf bag containing my lighter and papers and pipe and pot into Sugar Creek that was now a torrent, raging from the runoff of the heavy rains that had just fallen; made even more a spate of thrashing water as this was where the creek took a turn, gouging out a gorge that had to be ten feet deep and twenty feet wide, causing even more of a roil in the cascading waters gushing by. I then threw my little black book, containing the names and numbers of friendly persons since shortly after my separation from Susan into the creek; for in the past few days I had phoned several old friends, even written a one page letter to a few; but had not received any invitations for dinner, or any bids to let me know I would be welcome to stop by for a friendly chat or a Screwdriver should I be passing by. The unspeakable scandal had wrested from me all the comforts I had known in the past, and more than ever before; I knew I was starting over.

A piece of broken concrete was there to sit on; and for a long time that afternoon I tried to imagine why I had never had taken the time to come and see the beauty of the crashing torrent in my backyard that occurs after a heavy rain storm; then imagining Billy Graham had sat within feet of where I was sitting, many hundreds of times to view the same glorious scene, as this spot was a couple hundred yards or so down the hill from the house where he was born, and grew to manhood.

Before leaving that spot I began to brace myself for what was going to have to have to be done for me to be able to face people and peers again.

It is essential you understand I was about to take the next few days, while clean and sober, to purge my soul, to try to figure out what chain of events had caused me to suffer the worst crisis of my life.

For all my life I had always imagined the saddest misfortune to ever befall anyone would have been being a Jew during the last years of Adolf Hitler’s reign of terror.

Eddie was a borderline genius even then (years later I learned he had a stellar career at IBM); and I could vividly remember turning to ask him for help, day in and day out, for any help, I needed to deal with the days assignments.

I had been baffled all along, by the newsreels, and then the atrocities shown in photographs of emaciated Jews who had survived the brutality of the holocaust in the Nazi Concentration Camps; and could remember even then how the war had affected my young life. During lunch I would sit quietly for those few moments it would take Eddie to say his prayer before our meal, but by the time he had placed his skullcap into his back pocket we were both busily jabbering away again about whatever it is kids of that age find to talk about. One day, however, I asked Eddie why the Jews had been so mistreated, and I can still remember him lowering his face into his folded arms on our cafeteria lunch table, and crying quietly.

I tried to imagine what it must have been like to have been a Jew back then; and what it would have been like to have been dragged away from your home by the same people you knew from happier times. I tried to imagine what it must have been like to have been crammed into a cattle car with only a pot for a toilet, then remembering how I hated trips to the outhouse as a little boy; or stacked like goods on a showroom shelf with a thousand other people in a barracks building, unable to imagine then, how cries, and nightmares would have made getting a decent night's sleep impossible; and then, what it would have been like to suffer watching your body wither away from the lack of food, and good wishes of dear friends from the past.

I tried to understand why a couple hundred thousand Jews, some thieves, homosexuals, gypsies, and Jehovah's Witnesses, could not have overpowered a thousand, or even five thousand Nazi guards; for Samson had killed a thousand Philistine warriors with the jawbone of an ass: And then it became real clear to me.

There was no place for the people to go, in that it had been their townspeople who had, in most cases, turned them out of their homes and hiding places; the same Aryan brother on the block who had deprived them of their livelihood, and careers, and reduced them to being vagabonds; being the same Aryan friend who had carried your son home in his arms after he had taken a bad fall when playing with his children on the street.

In the end, It was those same neighbors, and friends, who cursed them, and spat on them; who beat them and shackled them; being the same neighbors and friends who caused your children to run to you trembling in fear and disbelief. Indeed, for many of the Jews the gas must have smelled sweetly; as even I could imagine taking deep breaths thankful it was all going to be over in only a matter of minutes.

I had little trouble imagining myself to have been born a black man in the south, and endure working for The Mastuh; planting and hoeing and picking his cotton, and garden, year in and year out; with nothing more to look forward to but getting old enough someday to groom and care for the fine horses he and his sons and daughters rode.

Even the Civil War would not have changed much, for after its end there were still seventy plus more years of squalor and unceasing poverty, til our country began to prepare for The Second World War; cause there were no exceptions, only white boys got the respectable jobs. I could also imagine that life, living through the deflationary depression of the 30's, up until the beginning of World War II, would have been more livable because even the crackers in the south barely got by.

Riding in the back of the bus maybe would not have been so bad either; until some little lady of color refused to do so; at which time, I, as a black man, would have said that I would not take any more of the white man's guff, who in most cases was not as smart as me to begin with, and do what I would have to do to change things. And then in a flash, I was jolted back to my senses.

What happened, on one of those early fall school days in 1956, when I was doing my part in making North Carolina history, by being a classmate of the first black man to integrate our state's previously segregated school system; was hearing a commotion ahead of me in the hallway between class, and hearing some girl scream a stifled cry. There had been a loud crash, and a louder thud made by anyone slamming a locker door shut, because I had slammed mine hundreds of times, and never once orchestrated such a clangor.

A kid came running down the hall toward me hugging the wall of lockers, who had one arm extended giving notice to all in front of him they had better get out of the way or be prepared to pay the price. He was being followed by another classmate who was chanting loud enough so only the kid in front of him should hear, "You did it, you really did it"; who were followed by another friend who was giggling as heartily as they were all running. It all seemed kind of strange, because there was not a logjam building up, as would have been the case if a classmate were having a seizure, or as would have been the case if there was a skirmish between two rowdy boys.

In only another moment I reached a small clearing made by the kids who were stepping away from the wall of lockers on my right, and then I saw Gus, crumpled on the floor, with his hand holding and rotating his jaw, in complete oblivion to everyone else around him; as he was now listening for the tell-tale crunch that comes from hearing bone rubbing against bone; and immediately remembering going through the same ritual, years earlier, when a punk kid punched me in the jaw, to weaken my resolve, before taking my candy

I found it incredulous to remember, this day, I had not stopped, offered a helping hand, or even broken my stride; halfway hoping Gus did not have the stuff to tough it out til the end.

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Paid the tab to sit in on an all day Motivational Seminar
in Sarasota, Florida, the second Thursday in May, 2009, where
we heard Rudy Giuliana pontificate on the merits of why his book,
Leadership, became a Best Seller:
Heard the daughter of Zig Ziglar prompt her 83 year old dad on giving clues every great salesman needs to know (and getting him back on track when his mind wandered – no slight or pun intended Zig):
But experienced the defining moment of the seminar when
Krish Dhanam, a ‘Communication Guru’ from India, said,
“Political Correctness is going to be the death of this nation”.

A state trooper woke me about sun-up that Saturday morning for having parked haphazardly in one of the state’s rest areas; so after taking a leak, wiping my face with a wet wash clothe, and getting started again; I cracked another ice cold beer, and waited patiently as my traveling companion rolled yet another joint that looked as good as any Lucky Strike I ever smoked.

Our trip was taking me and my companion through Atlanta, New Orleans, where sometime before reaching the Dallas-Fort Worth area, COORS Country, my lady friend obligingly took a snapshot of me buying my first twelve pack of the bubbly at its fair market trade price; as a can of Coors at OD, Myrtle Beach, or Charlotte, when you could find it, always cost at least a buck a piece. The drive across country was an experience I will never forget, for the beauty of our country cannot be appreciated viewed on a 23” color TV screen.

Every other night we would stay in a motel so we could shower; but on other nights we would stop somewhere along the way in a pretty setting, or a rest area, where I would roll the rear door up, and flake out on the king size mattress that had been the last thing put on the truck; but then that was before people had to worry about being, robbed, raped or shot, when sleeping over in an Interstate Rest Area. After a hearty breakfast every morning we would set out again to travel some four or five hundred miles before stopping to stay the night again.

My traveling companion was turning out to be a real basket case, in that she was one of those persons good pot anesthetizes; and the only way to tell she had not flaked out was on request, she would roll another joint. During the day she would read from a little book espousing there to be something special about the color green; and at other times, stare directly into the sun, in the late afternoon, as it was always somewhere out in front of us.

Did not take but a couple days of her nutty behavior to realize this was going to be more than I could bear; so rather than do some shows in Vegas with her as a tag-a-long, we had a tearful farewell after buying her airline passage at McCarran Airport.

Found a place where I could leave the truck without having to worry about it disappearing, and took a taxi to The Desert Inn; in the hope some of the aura of Howard Hughes would still be there, and relaxed for three days.

My trek continued north through the long miles of desert through Nevada to Reno; and then into upstate California to I-5, before eventually spending Sunday night in Anacortes, Washington.

On Monday morning, September 17, I caught the ‘redeye’, being the first ferry run of the day on any of The Washington State Ferry runs; and rode The KLICKITAT to San Juan Island, arriving in Friday Harbor about 8:00A. (Story has it someone called ashore one day from a boat passing by, asking what the name of the village was; but the person on shore thought they were being asked what day it was, and that’s why the locals think it wound up being Friday Harbor).

Being able to follow good directions I soon found the local garage, on a dirt road, behind the home of the man who owned the shop; had my car unhooked, and its grill and drive line reinstalled. I drove from there straight to Roche Harbor where I was granted the use of a water hose, which gave me the chance to scrub the grit and grime off my Cadillac that was now caked on it from the trip across country.

The ride back into Friday Harbor quickly turned into a nightmare, as I soon discovered my car was overheating in that its thermostat had frozen shut; and at the town’s busiest intersection, although there was not a traffic light on the island at the time, I had to turn my engine off out of fear I might damage my engine.

If I could have foreseen the events of this day I would have probably stopped, and stayed, in Dallas; for there I sat, blocking traffic beside Al Nash’s Friday Harbor Drug Store, with the hood raised on my old car, while water and steam boiled and spewed out of its radiator; no doubt, causing many people to believe another has-been is moving to the island; and one old Cadillac is giving up the ghost, then and there.

Leaving my car sitting in the middle of the road, I walked across the street to get to one of only two service stations on the island; which naturally sit across the street from each other. My embarrassment in having to have people detour around was short lived, as a service station attendant came back with me carrying a bucketful of water; and seeing as how the engine had cooled some, I started the engine, the attendant filled the radiator with water, and we got it to move, under its own power, to the service station where it was repaired.

My triumphant arrival on the island had been less than glorious; so after checking into a motel I got real smoked up, and stayed smoked up, for the rest of the day and night.

Tuesday, a lady real estate agent drove me around the island in her old Eldorado, accompanied by another young woman; as odds are she chose not to assume she could trust me; to show me different homes her agency had listed for rental through the winter months. But the next day, I found a home on Smuggler's Cove Road that suited me the moment I pulled into the drive, and we struck our deal that same day knowing I had found the place where I could live in peace for the next 8 months. On Saturday, September 22, 1979, we finally got around to signing our rental agreement; a date that would have been my dad's 69th birthday.

Two retired school teachers from sunny southern California had bought the cottage some years before; and had advertised in THE FRIDAY HARBOR JOURNAL for a renter. Part of the written agreement we struck was they allow me to store their living room furniture, and the bedroom furniture in the downstairs bedroom, in the owner's workshop downstairs, so I could use mine; and having done so, I moved in, sharing their home with them for a few days until their preparations were completed for them to make their return to California.

A day or two before they left I was walking up the backside of a huge hedgerow separating their home from the compound next door when I overheard my landlord, telling his next door neighbors, 'not to drop the soap', in that he had heard at the bank, his renter, was, to put it mildly, gay; or whichever. There was only one possible explanation, in my way of thinking; but putting that crazy broad on a plane in Vegas was still worth it.

Decided to deliver the Hertz truck rental back to Sea-Tac, where I could catch a flight back to the island; and stopped in the only bank on the island later that day only to find out the wire I had sent with the money that was going to keep me going for the next year had been summarily returned to NCNB in Charlotte, under the premise the person responsible for transactions like that did not know a Ken Wilson.

A day or two later my land lord and lady left for Redlands, California; and in the belief I was entitled to a couple days off, I got real smoked up; because for years and years, the best smoke of the day was the doobie one would do within minutes after getting out of bed.

The good news was my cottage sat some thirty feet or so above the water line at high tide, had been constructed on a bank of cooled lava that dropped precipitously at the water's edge, and sitting so close to the water one could almost spit into the kelp beds below from its front deck. The Haro Strait, said to be only seven miles wide at that point, separated The United States from Canada; and just across the strait from me was the southern tip of Vancouver Island where Victoria, British Columbia, is located on its southern most point.

As tough as it had been I soon learned to console myself by trying to keep track of the many freighters that ply through the strait to arrive at Vancouver, British Columbia, to unload their cargo of Honda's, food, and everything else being shipped to Canada from all over the world. At times, there were as many as five freighters, either heading into, or out of the strait; and seeing, and hearing the diesels engines of those mighty ships steaming past, was proving to have a wonderful, soothing and calming effect upon me.

On any given day I could sit in my rocking chair, enjoy the crackle and warmth of a fire in the fireplace, peer out the glass front of my rented home, and watch a bald eagle, perched in the top of a dying barren tree of some sort on Sunset Point, less than one hundred yards away; tear the flesh from what was said to almost certainly be an already dead rabbit, that had met its demise from being run over on one of the roads on the island (neighbors told me a bald eagle would much prefer not to have to expend the energy of having to kill the rabbit first); or, watch one of those resplendent birds feast on a fish I had just seen him snatch, in one fell swoop, out of the briny in the strait. At other times, there would be playful otters, floating on their backs, dining on some a mollusk he or she had plucked from the craggy bottom of the kelp bed below; or view the most glorious creatures of all, the fins and upper body's of a pod of majestic black and white Killer Whales, as they lazed by.

At night, when everything was quiet and still, I could lie in bed, and see the solitary lights of freighters only a few miles away, listen to the hum of their diesels as they steamed by my downstairs bedroom window; and only then begin to anticipate how many minutes it would be, before hearing their waves crash ashore just outside my window.

About the time the No-Smoking lamps lit up, and our stewardesses alerted us to prepare for our landing at Sea-Tac; I made myself another promise.

A promise I was going to keep; whatever the cost.

A promise I would never forsake; and never going to give up: No matter how long it takes.