Chapter 2
Heirs To The Spoils
Randy
Early autumn in Atlanta is such a pleasant time. This is especially true in the older neighborhoods that have their large trees and shaded sidewalks when the leaves begin to turn, but as Randy Coleman's sleek Faskback Mustang turns off Euclid Avenue onto Austin Avenue towards downtown Atlanta, it looks conspicuously out of place. It has a bright white exterior and black vinyl interior and almost defiantly contradicts the atmosphere of yesterday all around it. This is not to mention Randy himself who has a very contemporary appearance in his dark brown suit, blue shirt and striped brown and white tie. Such attire is require for all male employees of the investment firm by which he is employed; that is, all must wear a dark suit, a blue or white shirt and a striped tie. Such uniformity is viewed as agreeable to the clients with whom the firm deals and must constantly strive to impress, if only by the most superficial means.
In her directionless prattling, Blanche sometimes speaks of the smaller, single story homes along Austin Avenue and how years ago, they were occupied by those working in the plants a few blocks over along the railroad tracks. Now, most of the plants are closed, leaving some of the houses vacant and run down and other occupied by what the few higher-strung people left on Euclid Avenue call transients. Many of the people along the street have the same blank stare on their faces. Most of the men need a shave and many have what Harold Akers describes as "that bourbon complexion", which is a ruddy, red-faced sort of glow.
Randy doesn't consciously compare them to himself, but the present stages of their lives are quite the opposite from his own. By every contemporary system of evaluation, society would regard them as failures. Undoubtedly, any objective method of self-evaluation would lead one to the same conclusion. In any event, what most aspire for themselves in their youth is not at all what can be seen along Austin Avenue on this cool and bright morning. Everyone wants to make the most of his or her life and at some point, develops an objective, but not everyone realizes that goal, be it trivial by present-day assessment. Some can accept failure, but others are consumed by it to the point they seem to rebel at every chance against a world they perceive has dealt them an unkind turn. If appearance be any guide, that must be the case with those coarse images along Austin Avenue. Their pain and disappointment in life is inscribed all over them in an unspoken dialogue that is unmistakable.
Randy is at the stage in his life where he is developing his own goals. He is young, handsome and has been quite successful in the year and a half he has been employed at Foote and Jones, which is one of Atlanta's oldest investment firms. Today, he is especially excited, as last week, he received his progress review from his sales manager and today is scheduled to meet with old man Foote himself at 9:00 AM to assess his future with the company. It seems the ideal time to present some rather revolutionary ideas he has. He feels very sure of himself and is positive he made the correct decision when an employment agency suggested he apply to Foote and Jones soon after he graduated from college.
He glances across the downtown skyline, only seeing the modern, multi-story office buildings that have been constructed within the last ten years. He can easily identify with them, as they are gradually replacing those of an earlier vintage, now languishing in their shadows. Many of his fellow workers feel Foote and Jones needs to break away from what they describe as the archaic procedures of its senior members and "set a new and forceful direction" they are sure today's informed investor expects. Slowly, but not altogether gracefully, one generation is replacing another.
He parks in the Cain Street Garage and energetically begins walking towards the Bank of Georgia Building, which is one of the newer buildings and is in the center of Five Points. For a moment, a thin, pale and elderly woman whom he has seen on the street before interrupts his preoccupation with the day ahead of him. Almost everyone takes a few quick steps to one side, making sure her eyes do not capture their own. Randy hopes she will just pass him but she walks up to him with her glassy, blue eyes glaring directly into his and asks, "Mister, can you help me with a dollar?" She is wearing a gray coat that is unbottoned and to big for her. Her black dress in wrinkled and has large, white buttons in front. Her shoes are scuffed, and her loose, white socks have fallen down around her meager ankles. The stare on her face pierces into his very soul as he reaches into his pocket and removes two dollars. She stands beside him with a painful expression declaring helplessness, and her withered face remains motionless and destitute.
He holds out the two dollars and says in a suppressed voice, "Maybe this will help you."
Her hands extend to his, a faint smile comes to her face, and she utters, "God bless you," before dropping her eyes to the sidewalk and quietly walking away. Others on the street cover their mouths with their hands, utter something to one another and begin a muted snicker.
Trying to get the woman out of his mind, Randy's eyes scan up and down the Bank of Georgia Building and about the street seeing many, such as himself, whose appearances convey a measure of success and fulfillment in the material sense, but what about that woman? What was it in her life that put her on this street, surrounded by those who regard themselves as successful, and pleading for a mere morsel of understanding? What thoughts are in her mind as she is beset by a world from which she must have fallen long ago? On this morning, Randy and all those around her seem absorbed by their own ambitions and what they want for themselves, so much so they feel affronted by her pitiful appeal for all of one dollar. What is it she wants for herself? Ambition must have been something that fled from her long ago, leaving only emptiness and wanting. He questions what she feels towards those who pass her by and refuse even to look at her. Is it resent? Is it envy, or is there a redeeming consolation that her life has not descended to the unfeeling neutrality of those who pass her by?
Randy hurries across the lobby of the Bank of Georgia Building and can barely fit himself into one of the crowed elevators. As he ascends to the twelfth floor, he looks around the compartment and notices all of the men are dressed in a dark suit, blue or white shirt and striped tie, exactly as he is. All are neatly groomed, and some are holding little square, leather briefcases. When the elevator stops at each floor, all are very polite, and no one seems to want to be the first to get off the elevator. Randy recognizes some of them as the ones having passed the old lady only moments before.
On the twelfth floor, the two large doors open to a thickly carpeted reception area and bear the impressive golden letters "Foote and Davis – Your Peace of Mind Since 1920." For a moment, Randy's thoughts are diverted from his appointment with Emory B. Foote III to the very attractive receptionist clad in a tight, light pink mini-skirt revealing in a most appealing way her very shapely, crossed legs. He smiles and attempts to remain very businesslike but can't avoid obviously glancing over the full length of her body. This produces a gratified expression on her face and leaves him debating if such an expression is only polite or one that invites more aggressive behavior from him.
As he walks through the order processing area, his sales manager walks up behind him and places his arm on his shoulder. Glimpsing back towards the receptionist, the sales manager whispers, "How do you like that?'
"She's really something," Randy replies, somehow losing a measure of his businesslike appearance.
The manager steps a little closer to him and tauntingly says, "I understand from those who claim to know that she can be had."
Somewhat self-righteously, Randy replies, "Scoring with something everyone else is banging isn't much of an achievement."
His manager's head tilts back, and he laughs aloud. "And all this time, I thought the age of chivalry was dead. Surely, anyone who stays so far ahead of his sales quota is a more progressive thinker than that." He slaps him on the back and clamors, "Come on, little boy, its the 20th century." He goes into his office, turns around and comes right back out, grabbing Randy by the sleeve and mockingly saying in a soft voice, "Maybe you'd better hold off on the 20th century until after your meeting with old Emory. He doesn't realize its the 20th century either."
Randy has become accustomed to the frantic and stressful activity that has already begun within the office. The nature of the investment business is that everything must be done on a priority basis. This is partially due to the importance of the transactions and partially due to the presumed importance of the investors in their own minds. Some can adapt to this and learn how to recognize the true priorities and appease ultra-ego at the same time. He has observed that those who are less emotional seem to fare better under the constant stress and have perfected the process of presenting a face so unrepresentative of their true thoughts and feelings. Those who permit themselves to become emotionally involved in the concerns of their clients don't seem to do nearly as well. Several of the more experienced brokers insist that a cold and analytical disposition, under what kind of face who chooses to present is a requirement for success in this profession – something like a doctor and patient relationship with the size of the client's bank account being the only relevant consideration.
Randy steps into his small cubicle and sits down at his desk and notices telephone message slips showing his two appointments from yesterday afternoon have already called him back. He felt very proud of the sales presentations he made, and both of them seemed impressed with the research he had done on the performances of the companies in the portfolio he presented. Those in the investment field always use the word "performance" rather than "record." He has never been exactly sure why, and his superiors developed a curious expression when he contended "performance" implied a reference to sexual proficiency.
He is surprised when he begins to sense an unsettled concern about the meeting with Foote and starts to look over a little outline he had prepared the night before as to how he can most effectively present his ideas and make a good impression. He reads the notes a final time, wads up the note, throws it in the wastebasket and confidently walks towards Foote's office, being sure he arrives early because Foote has an obsession with punctuality. Foote isn't there, so he sits down on one of the leather guest chairs and looks about the richly appointed room. Everything is very sterile and orderly. All of the sales reports are neatly stacked at on side of the credenza, and several prospectus reports with certain sections marked in bright purple ink to be circulated among the sales representative are at the right side of is desk. Randy stands up a moment to look at a single page in the center of Foote's desk and sees that he has already precisely planned what he will do during every hour of the day. The consensus among most of the younger members of the firm is that Foote is too attentive to detail and seems more concerned with method rather than result.
Randy glances across the back wall at the neatly spaced and perfectly matched frames displaying pictures of various people in the firm from over the years. Directly behind the desk is a large frame containing Foote's degree in finance and below it is a smaller frame housing his broker's certificate. In the corner of the room and separated from all the rest is one frame containing two pictures. One is what appears to be a bombed-out European city of World War II. There is complete devastation and ruin with many collapsed buildings and rubble blocking all the streets. The other picture is of the very orderly Atlanta skyline, obviously taken some years ago because many of the newer buildings are not there, but the shining state capital dome can be seen in the background. Centered at the bottom of the picture is the inscription To The Victors Belong The Spoils Of War. A curious expression comes over Randy's face, as he doesn't see the point or the relationship to everything else in the office.
Mr. Foote enters the office at exactly 9:00 AM, and with distinct authority in his voice, greets Randy with, "Hello Coleman. You're on time. I like that." Foote looks very impressive in his dark blue suit, white shirt and blue and white striped tie. He has a light blue handkerchief in his coat pocket that accents everything else, rendering a very business-like and successful appearance that blends very well with the well appointed office. His graying hair is very neatly combed but has the "wet look" produced by liquid hair tonics, now represented as out of vogue by current advertisers. He sits down at his desk, looks over his schedule for the day and then at his watch, thus implying Randy is not a priority item on his itinerary.
He removes Randy's personnel folder from his middle drawer, looks him straight in the eyes and very systematically begins, "I completely reviewed your record with the firm yesterday afternoon. I must say I was impressed to say the least. Few of our sales representatives have seen a three hundred per-cent increase in commissions in just a year and a half as you have, but this is not to say I regard a person's earnings as an absolute standard by which to evaluate his professionalism. Your department manager describes you as energetic and innovative." He leans back in his chair, crosses his arms and very attentively looks at Randy, adding, "What does he mean by that?"
Randy is somewhat surprised Foote didn't use the word performance and that the conversation has so quickly turned in the precise direction he thought he would have to engineer himself and with what he hopes is a tone suggesting insight, says, "I see a need that we consider diversification into investment modes other than stocks and bonds."
Foote seems somewhat annoyed as he leans forward in his chair, crosses his hands on top of is desk and coldly asks, "Are you suggesting this company desist the policy we have innovated for some 50 years now, one which has made us the largest investment counselor in the southeastern United States on the advice of someone barely out of college who hasn't even received his broker's license?"
Randy's first inclination is to break away from this whole line of discussion that is proving more argumentative than he had anticipated, but he leans forward, places his hands on Foote's desk and without hesitation replies, "No sir, I'm not suggesting we abandon our policy but I am submitting we should perfect it by recognizing the expanding needs of our clients."
Foote's eyes stare at him for a moment before slowing leaning back into his chair. He brings both hands together, touching only the fingertips, and presses, "How can we do that?"
Trying to use Foote's own mannerism, Randy inhales rather noticeably, leans back in his chair and looks him directly in the eye, confidently responding, "We've got to offer our clients a more comprehensive investment portfolio. Most any first year finance student knows that a well-conceived investment program, of necessity, can't revolve around only one mode. The stock market is too subject to change and historically, the return on bonds is too small." He immediately wishes he had omitted the part about the first year financial student but this isn't obvious in his expression of intensity.
Foote crosses his arms in front of his chest and brings one hand up under his chin. He tilts his head slightly to one side and with a keenly interested tone in his voice, inquires, "What exactly should we do to implement these progressive ideas?"
Randy's confidence continues to build as he quickly answers, " Life insurance annuities and real estate investments can give many the long-term returns they are seeking better than stocks and bonds. A life insurance license is incredibly easy for almost anyone to get. It takes a little longer to get a real estate license but the Multi-Listing Facility regularly offers a forty-hour course for new sales agents. All we'd have to do would be to locate someone with a real estate broker's license for a life insurance agent to work with, but that wouldn't be much of a trick, because there's almost as many real estate agents are there are life insurance agents."
"Once we have the formality in place, what would you suggest our next step should be?" Foote asks as he stands up, walks across the room and begins searching through a filing cabinet. In a moment, he removes a single folder, opens it and begins thumbing through the pages.
"We'd obviously need to have the life insurance agent and real estate agent conduct some cross-training with the stock brokers with the ultimate goal being the ability to offer a more diversified spread of funds correctly balanced between long and short-term investments. Eventually, the present-day investor is going to insist on that."
A gradual smile comes to Foote's face as he sits back down and asks, "Specifically, what are some of the options?"
Randy's confidence continues to build. "Well sir, within the past few years, a real estate investment procedure known as the limited partnership has become popular. The way it works is that one or more managing general partners put together a prospectus on a real estate purchase, such as an apartment or shopping center, and obtain most of the funds needed through the investments of the limited partners. Each limited partner investor shares in the profits in the same percentage as his investment bears to the total put up by all the investors. I've even heard of some projects being set up to produce a loss for the first few years in order to give the investors a write-off on their income tax. Our accounting staff should be able to master such a maneuver with very little research."
"Isn't that a little subversive?" Foote asks. His amused smile broadens as he adds, "What's the benefit of setting up an investment scheme to loose money anyway?"
Randy continues his advance. "No sir, not as long as there is any law against it. Most projects that yield a negative cash flow are apartment complexes in rundown areas. For those, the government will even subsidize the owners' repair costs in order to provide low rent housing for urban areas. If the limited partnership puts up any of its own funds for the repairs, that creates an even greater negative cash flow and more income tax write-offs. Then, when the complexes are fully renovated, the partnership can usually sell them at a tremendous profit, dissolve the entity and move on to something else that might even be more lucrative. I'm sure all we would have to do would be to put out the word in a few places around town that we have a repository of investors for such things and we'd have people camping outside our door with their money in their hands. Hell, we could hire someone just out of law school and set up the whole things ourselves."
Foote hesitates for a moment and for the first time, turns his eyes away from Randy. Momentarily, he seems to be struggling with something in his own mind. Randy isn't sure if he should be encouraged or subdued by this unexpected development but presently, Foote slowly and thoughtfully responds, "I agree with you in principal but not application." Again, there is what seems a long pause before he turns his eyes back to Randy and begins a rather sermon-like dissertation. "There's much more to such a project than simply installing a few people here and there who happen to have some sort of license requiring only a rudimentary knowledge of what they are supposed to be doing. I must tell you that the same thought occurred to me some years ago. I did quite a bit of study on the prospect myself, and my ideas and notes are all in this folder. Finally, I dismissed the idea due to what at the time, seemed to be a very unmistakable non-availability of truly qualified people in the other fields you mentioned. The simple truth of the matter is that highly qualified life insurance and real estate agents as well as lawyers would not be content playing second fiddle on the sort of cat and dog income tax dodge you are implying. I'm afraid any program built upon the unsubstantial base of agents and lawyers who just happen to be available would not only fail in this diversification idea of yours but could alienate our clients as well. Some of them are lawyers themselves you must realize. We could then see the whole scheme vaporize before our very eyes."
All the time Foote is speaking, Randy becomes progressively more uneasy. First, his neck begins to tingle around his shirt collar and then, he begins to feel as though his face is flushed. In a despairing attempt to end the whole line of conversation, he meekly asks, "Should I simply dismiss the idea as you did?"
"No, not at all," Foote reacts to Randy's complete astonishment. "I agree the current atmosphere in the investment market is indeed changing and this requires we diversify. The only question is how to go about it professionally so as not to subject our clients to undue risks. Would you want to go over my ideas in this folder and update them through your own research with the goal of eventually positioning a greatly modified prototype of what you suggested?"
"Yes sir, I've already started a file myself."
Foote reaches across the desk and hands the folder to Randy, leans back in his chair and says, "I know what the book is on me out there on the floor, and I can't say that at times, being thought of as negative and tied to the past doesn't concern me, although not for the reasons you might suspect. Insisting on quality will never be out of date. This firm will never tolerate a cadre of fast talkers whose only concern is their own advancement. What our goal must be is to accomplish an upgraded variant of your ideas but not lose our self-respect in the process. I hope you can find your way to agree with me on these points. Let's set January 2nd as the due date when I'll expect a complete study in outline format showing a primary and two secondary courses of action. Cover all aspects of the project, including staffing and licensing requirement, plus your recommendations for cross-training between departments. I might suggest you pay particular attention to my notes on the training requirements."
He picks up Randy's personnel file and again looks at his watch. With obvious intent to terminate the meeting, he rather coincidentally adds, "I have only two other questions. What made you decide on living in a rooming house over there in such a run-down neighborhood?"
"It meets my needs. I worked my way through college and had limited financial resources when I came to Atlanta."
"That's not true now, is it?"
Randy shakes his head and says nothing, not sure if he has already said too much or not enough.
Foote again seems entertained and says, "Most people your age want to live in one of those swinging apartment complexes over on the north side. That seems a little more in character for you."
Without looking at him, Randy retorts, "A swinger is someone who gets VD and brags about it."
A fairly startled expression comes over Foote's face. He sits motionless for a moment but then begins to chuckle and finally breaks into an unbridled laugh that can be heard throughout the office. "I think I know what you mean," he says, gradually regaining his serious-minded disposition. As he closed the personnel file, in a more familiar and earnest tone, he asks, "What is your draft status?"
"I'm 1-A. I had my physical quite some time ago but have heard nothing since. With college deferment I had for so long under this lottery idea, I really don't expect to be called. I'll be 24 next week, so I think I'm going to beat it."
Foote nods without responding but his expression changes quite noticeably. He stands up, extends his hand and politely says, "Keep up the good work." He sits back down, picks up his telephone and begins to dial.
Walking back to his desk, Randy can't evaluate how the meeting went. He has, however, learned one important item and that is he must never again form an opinion of someone based on the views of others. Foote wasn't at all what he had expected. He reflects on the events of the morning and thinks perhaps a degree of jealousy has created a clouded image of Emory Foote in the minds of those who refer to him as living in the past. In any event, he has a much different opinion of him now than he did twenty minutes ago, and a stage of respect might even be emerging.
____________________
All through the day, Randy's enthusiasm has built while he organized his thoughts for the project. Unlike the morning, as he drives back to the boarding house, he pays no attention to the shabby figures along Austin Avenue. The afternoon warmth is slowly resigning to the early autumn's chill, and as he parks in front of Blanche's house, he doesn't even notice the subdued beauty of the waning neighborhood as twilight begins to trickle through the yellow and red colors of the turning leaves. He doesn't hear Blanche call his name as he enters the foyer and springs up the steps to begin writing down some more thoughts for the project that have just rushed into his mind. She steps out into the foyer and calls him again.
Halfway up the steps, he turns around and somewhat impatiently says, "Hello Miss Blanche."
Wiping her hands on her apron, she points to the old marble-top table and says in a restrained voice, "Something there came for you today."
He steps back down the steps and sees a large brown envelope with the imprint "Selective Service Administration – Local Board 61." As he picks up the envelope, his arms drop to his side, because he knows what it is without opening it.
She steps back into the dining room and hesitantly asks, "Have you been drafted?"
Nervously, he opens the envelope and reads the first few lines of the cover page. His arms again fall to his side, and he dejectedly responds, "I'm afraid so. I report to Fort Jackson, South Carolina on November 1st."
Blanche doesn't know what to say, so she says nothing as she watches him slowly go up the stairs to his room and quietly close the door behind him. Walking back into the kitchen, she remembers when Charles enlisted in the Army during World War I and also when Loren applied for military flight school soon after he received his private pilot license. Loren's enlistment was before Pearl Harbor but everyone knew what was coming. Recalling those times, the sentiment of the country is so different now. There is a growing dissension for the Vietnam War heralded by an ever-present host of bearded and gaunt protesters exhibited through the news media night after night, burning their draft cards, the American Flag and sometimes a likeness of Richard Nixon himself. Her life has seen many changes along Euclid Avenue, but none can parallel the change in how some view their responsibilities between now and the time Charles and Loren were alive. She is always troubled when she consider the likelihood this change in sentiment and the resultant uncertain direction of a segment of the society is most likely not nearly as large as the nightly newscasts are portraying. Increasingly, the conflict is described by some as "an immoral war" but the protesters, ordained in their faded blue jeans and dirty t-shirts bearing the peace symbol of a dove's foot, hardily seem the embodiment of morality. Indeed, their unclean appearance, foul language and preference for drugs as an escape from reality seem to represent a trend in the opposite direction. Certainly, everyone in a free society has the right to express his or her own opinion but should they really do that when the storybook process may well demoralize those wearing the uniform who are having live ammunition shot at them?
For sometime now, she has asked herself just how much of the nation's supposed sentiment is finding its way to the soldiers in Vietnam. Whose rights and freedoms are more important? Is it the right of a misfit to burn the flag of his own country or the right of a soldier whose life is in danger, and who most likely is constantly afraid because of it, to know he has the understanding and support of those who put him there? The obvious conflict between these two lines of thought could lead one to the opinion that free speech and other textbook idealism, beyond a certain point, defeat their own purpose.
Equally disquieting is the fact that the conviction of most does not drive them to express their opinion, which seems strikingly passive, as long as circumstances keep them out of any moderate inconvenience resulting from controversy. And thus enter what has come to be known as "the silent majority."
The moods and methods of "the protest generation" contrast greatly from all she can remember for most of her life. Over the years, she can recall how many along Euclid Avenue reacted to trying circumstances. True, the present conditions are different in that there is no immediate threat to this country, but she recalls those times during World War II when so many of the homes along her street displayed the satin window dressing meaning someone in the family was overseas. One side was blue, which meant the person was still alive. The other side was red, meaning some member of the family had been killed. She thinks of all those boys in the neighborhood who matured during the Depression and then, thinks of seeing that haunting little red pennant hanging there in one of the windows, sadly proclaiming yet another person had given what was referred to in those days as "the ultimate sacrifice."
Broken hearts, bitter memories and thousands and thousands of untold stories of suffering on a scale now difficult to visualize would, within any measure of reason, seem to have graced this country with a legacy that would not authorize such an impaired application of freedom. The freedom of expression erupting from the nightly news reports strikes her as being in grievous disunity with the freedom that so many have given so much to preserve. Each night, she wonders how many across the country are watching the television display she is witnessing and being tormented by those same thoughts of loved ones lost in battle or those handicapped or scared for life in some manner. Such besetting memories are difficult enough, but to witness such a perverted representation of freedom is near unbearable.
When someone is alone, as she is at this moment, it's strange the thoughts that seep into one's mind. She recalls an address made by Douglas MacArthur to the Corps of Cadets at West Point near the end of his life. Very short portions were shown on the evening news, but The Atlanta Journal carried the complete text. She read it several times and now can hear his words ringing clearly above the voices of the protesters: "Should you fail, a million ghosts in olive drab, brown khaki, blue and gray would rise from their white crosses resounding duty, honor, country." Now, such words are regarded by some as the sentimental babbling of an old man who was hopelessly imprisoned in the past. The storied honor of those to whom he so properly referred has now been eclipsed by a legion of hippies and perverts that each night crawl across the television screen like roaches crawling across a dirty floor. Something indeed has failed, but it is not those who now or have ever worn the uniform of whom he so respectfully spoke.
As Randy walks into his room, he drops Foote's folder on the old table by the window and sits down in the high-back rocking chair. His eyes remain set on the folder for a moment before he begins reading his draft notice over and over again. Presently, his eyes begin to wander about the old room. He looks at the mahogany trim around the ceiling and baseboards and then at himself in the mirror above the scared and discolored dresser. An uneasy feeling seizes his stomach, and his mouth becomes dry. He loses track of time and just sits there staring at the floor.
When he hears a gentle knock at the door, he stands, slowly walks across the creaking floor, opens the door and sees Blanche standing halfway into the hallway.
She seems concerned and says, "I kept a plate for you."
He responds with a muted laugh. "Somehow, I lost my appetite and decided to skip supper. I'll be going out in a few minutes."
"Very well," she says, but her eyes search his face for a second before she starts back down the stairs, obviously wanting to say something else but not finding the words.
He walks back across the room, combs his hair, puts on his coat and slowly walks down the back stairs in an effort to avoid seeing the other roomers. A brindled alley cat darts in front of him as he looks at the full moon rising over Euclid Avenue. The evening rush has ended, and the streets are nearly empty, which adds to his solitary mood. A few hours ago, he was planning his whole future, but now it has been confiscated from him, as if by a pickpocket who has stolen his worldly possessions and disappeared into the night.
His car moves reluctantly up Ivy Street. His eyes scan up and down the old buildings, as his mind is locked on the career he wanted for himself but now has collapsed and succumbed to a needless interruption. He turns into the Imperial Hotel parking lot, parks and locks his car, which he suddenly realizes he will have to let the finance company repossess, and dejectedly walks towards the hotel with his hands in his pockets and eyes stationary on the aged building. It is some 15 stories high, each room has a bay window with the protruding sections painted white to match the large letters "Imperial Hotel" painted across a black background along the top of the building. Hardly a four-star facility, the dimly lit lobby only adds to the melancholy setting.
He glances at the roomers sitting in small groups on the old cloth upholstered chairs along the walls. Most of them are railroad crews who are just passing through the city. It is difficult to accurately place the others except to say that from their appearance, they are quite obviously what modern society has come to call the "working class." At any rate, they are substantially removed from the little troop of "three piecers" he recalls from the elevator earlier in the day.
Many of those in Atlanta now have no identity with such people and their only concern is to remain far enough away from them in a locale that conforms to their own life styles. Atlanta has become largely a suburban community, leaving the inner city to those who have not exactly made their mark in the world. The faces of the people in the hotel lobby are different but the expressions are always the same, as they just sit there with their hands folder in their laps, watching the people come in and out – perhaps envying them, perhaps resenting them.
Ironically, only a few feet away in the Domino Lounge is a whole different order of society, especially on Tuesday nights when many business travelers are in the city. There is an oblong bar in front of the stage where the strippers perform and as he enters the lounge, he sees what must be eight prostitutes positioned at well-defined intervals around the bar so as to invite the out-of-towners to come sit by them. The room is dark and smoke-filled, only revealing the outlines of their bodies, but their bleached hair and glow from their cigarettes are clear beacons for the men scattered about the lounge.
As soon as one of the table waitresses sees him, she runs up beside him and begins to rub her shoulder against him, saying, "Where have you been stranger? I've missed you."
He manages a faint smile, puts his arm around her and replies, "I'll bet I missed you more than you missed me."
A smirk comes to her face as she tauntingly says, "I'm going to be hurt if you came to see Evette and not me."
He reaches into his pocket, removes a five-dollar tip and says, "I came to see you both. Please tell Evette someone's here to see her."
She snatches the bill from his hand and without saying another word, disappears into the strippers' dressing room.
He sits down at one of the tables at the back of the lounge and is somewhat uneasy, waiting for the woman he has dated for the past several months. By chance, he met her one evening in the lobby when she was waiting for a cab. They began talking for a few minutes before he offered to drive her home, which turned out to be an apartment building not far from Euclid Avenue. He was surprised she gave him her telephone number and even more surprised when she went out with him the first time he called.
His eyes wander about the lounge, first looking at the prostitutes and then at the men spaced throughout the room. Systematically, they survey the full length of the bar, dueling the dimly lit atmosphere in a poorly rehearsed effort to see if any of the young women look good enough to warrant the fifty dollar allotment for part of the evening. Once that is determined from a distance, with predictable regularity, one of them will quietly, but very conspicuously, move across the room and sit down by one of the women. Usually, an eloquence-lacking dialogue will follow and another evaluation process will begin to conclude if the hooker's temperament is cordial enough to encourage an erection, which is difficult for some under the hurried motel room agenda commonplace within the trade.
In a few minutes, Evette come through the dressing room door and looks round the room for a moment before seeing him in the corner. As she moves towards him, he can't take his eyes off her. She has a clear complexion, dark drown hair and a very well proportioned body. The light green, satin evening gown she is wearing has a long slit on the left side, revealing her shapely legs with every step. The gown is not especially low-cut but still flaunts very noticeable cleavage between her full breasts that move from side to side in perfect rhythm with her steps. A woman twenty-nine years old is still considered young in most circles but for a stripper, that age is old – not especially because the line of work is exceptionally demanding but because the life style that inevitably precipitates from such an environment as a strip lounge tends to diminish a youthful appearance rather rapidly. Aside from the fact she is a very attractive woman, dating someone older has given him what might well be unsubstantiated self-confidence in his finesse with the opposite sex; however, Evette is proving the one exception to this presumed self-assurance.
She sits down in front of him and says, "Hi." Her eyes look directly into his as she crosses her arms and leans forward across the table so no one can hear what they are saying. Her breast ooze towards the top of her gown, and as conscious as he is of not doing it, his eyes immediately fall down to glimpse at them. At this moment, he wants so much to hold her soft body close to him, inhale the fragrance of her hair as she lays her head on his shoulder and feel her warm breath along the side of his neck. From the very first time he saw her standing there in the lobby, he has never experienced such a strong attraction to a woman, but now he needs understanding and concern and is not at all sure what he can expect from her, because there is so much about her he does not understand.
He reaches across the table to hold one of her hands and sheepishly says, "I've missed you."
"Well come in more often. That would solve that," she responds with a teasing turn of her hear and squeeze of his hand.
He releases her hand, leans back, "I was hoping you would say you missed me too."
With an amused gesture, she says, "Ooooh, I'm sorry. I didn't know we were in such a sentimental mood tonight," as she reaches across the table and begins to pat his cheek with one hand.
She looks more beautiful than he has ever seen her. The slight amount of eye make accentuates her large brown eyes, which reflect the flickering candles at the tables behind them. Her alluring smile, plus his memories of the few times they have made love, kindle all his male drives to the point he begins to feel very awkward. She is so calm and composed, he feels the same he always does when he sees her, which is a distinct uneasiness exhorted by a humbling combination of lack of confidence and not knowing precisely what approach he should take with her.
For the first time since she sat down, he takes his eyes off her, looks down at the table and says, "You're not going to be seeing me at all from now on."
Again, that teasing tilt comes to her head but her expression shows either concern or another form of amusement – he isn't sure which. There is a momentary silence before she reaches across the table and lifts up his head so that again, she is looking directly into his eyes and says, "What do you mean? I thought everything was going all right. Damn, I must be slipping."
With the observable change in her temperament, he doesn't know if this only implies a passing change from amusement to curiosity or if she could possible feel some latent affection towards him and, consequently, a need for anxiety in what he has just said.
"I got my draft notice today."
"Oh hell!" There is a short silence before she flinches, covers her mouth with one hand and adds, "Did I say the wrong thing?"
Quickly, other emotions seize him. He leans closer to her and says with a taunt mouth, "It couldn't have happened at a worse time. My job's been going well and....." He stops before saying anything about how he might feel about her because he isn't sure himself and is equally unsure what level of receptiveness might ensue from her after receiving such information. In any event, now it doesn't make much difference whether she cares anything about him or not.
He can't control the slight tremble in his hand as he reaches out for hers and says, "I didn't want to leave without saying anything but the way I feel about this mess now is I just want to cut everything off until I can get all this nonsense over with."
She releases his hand, leans back and blankly stares across the stage for a moment before faintly saying, "I guess so." Finally, she faces him and adds, "I wish you had come in earlier. It's almost time for me to go on."
Only then does it occur to him he could have chosen a much more appropriate setting to pour out his uncertain emotions. He removes the twenty-dollar bill he put in his shirt pocket before leaving the boarding house. Her hand quickly extends to receive it. He slowly stands and says, "I'm glad I met you. It's meant a lot to me."
She stands and just looks at him for a moment before stepping forward and putting her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder and saying nothing. He brings his hand up to the side of her face and looks straight into her eyes before whispering," Bye," with a slight quiver in his voice doing little to convey any form of masculinity. He gently draws her closer to him. Her body has never felt so soft and enticing, but the manner in which her smooth lips return his kiss foments more than just the strong and natural sexual attraction he has always felt towards her. Such a feeling is argumentative with his present state of mind and only adds to his dismay. He walks away without saying anything else, and it suddenly occurs to him that during the entire time he has known her, he never sat there among the others and watched her strip. That would have been a little embarrassing for them both, but he always disliked the thought of other men seeing her disrobe, sometimes making responses and gestures that could hardly be described as gentlemanlike in nature.
An unsettling thought captures his mind as he considers how possibly untrue his statement earlier in the day might have been that he didn't regard scoring with someone everyone else was banging as much of an accomplishment. He has never been sure if Evette is a prostitute. He's given her money each time they've made love, but she never asked for it. She is either what she seems, which is someone above the accepted age for a stripper who is just struggling through uncertain circumstances, or she is a prostitute who has indeed attained the summit of her profession to the extent that instead of feeling guilty about giving her money, he clients actually feel good about it.
He feels so alone driving back to Euclid Avenue. Several manners of feelings of loss weigh on his mind. His career objectives have been unnecessarily delayed and, prostitute or not, he was beginning to feel something towards Evette, although he is not completely sure what.
He parks in front of the rooming house and notices two large alley cats crouched in the driveway. All at once, they attach one another, emitting loud, shrill sounds and tumble against the garbage cans, rattling them against one another. One of the tops falls off and begins to roll down the driveway, making an unearthly sound. The two combatants disengage and sprint away in opposite directions. As he was leaving the Domino Lounge, some creep, supposedly a stand-up comedian, was on the stage saying something about rough sex. Perhaps that is what he has just witnessed.
He enters the back door and notices Blanche sitting at the kitchen table. "Isn't it a little past your bedtime?" he asks.
"I waited up for you. I thought you might feel more like eating when you got back" She walks to the refrigerator and removes a turkey sandwich and glass of milk.
He removes his coat, sits down and says, "That's very thoughtful of you." For the first time since he read his draft notice, there is a hint of humor in his voice when he adds, "Well, I guess you could say my plans have changed."
"I could see you were very upset earlier in the evening," she says as she sits down beside him. "I really didn't know what to say. With a muted laugh, she glances down at the table and adds, "I don't have much experience in consoling men, you understand."
Suddenly, Blanche Wilson no longer seems the eccentric old maid he has always thought. There is sincerity in her eyes and a genuine concern in her voice that in the most unexpected way, projects a caring that temporarily places his wrenched feelings almost at rest. He manages a smile and says, "That's okay, Miss Blanche. A lot of women think they've mastered the art but can't do nearly as well as you right now." His thoughts immediately turn back to Evette. Seeing her had not consoled him at all. In fact, it had quite the opposite effect. All facets of her appeal had never been stronger and that had only made matters worse, but he couldn't blame her for that. She had never made any commitments to him, and that was hardly the time. Maybe knowing you can't have something really makes you want, or think you want, it more.
"How do you feel?" Blanche asks.
Again, Randy is taken over by the anger he has felt for most of the evening. "I feel like someone who has had his whole future pilfered from him because of some child-like game played by a bunch of losers who can't make it in the real world."
"It's strange you would put it that way," she says, crossing her hands on the table. "I'm afraid my outlook on what the real world really is has changed quite a few times in my lifetime. I really can't say to this day if that was because I was becoming wiser or simply gradually coming to realize I was never going to have many of the things I wanted for myself. When that happens, one is often forced into taking a more objective view of what the real world actually is."
He is in no mood to discuss philosophy and immediately tries to change the direction of the conversation. "Let's just say my perspective has changed, if not my goals. I haven't given up on them – at least not yet."
"That's good. You know, you're the 3rd man that's left this house for the Army. Both my brother and his son were in the service. Of course, that was quite a long time ago."
Randy thinks of all those times he's looked at those pictures of Charles and Loren in that antiquated living room and feels a strong sense of resent come over him. He doesn't know which is more simple-minded – the Sunday School image of those two or those stupid-ass pictures on Foote's wall expounding some 18th century rhetoric about the spoils of war. He coldly says, "I don't care anything about being a part of some sort of military tradition. Those times are past. The world's different now. There's so much opportunity that shouldn't be clouded by constantly warming over history like those silly little pictures in my boss's office with some nursery rhyme footnote about victors claiming the spoils of war. Damn, they were an ill omen, if I ever saw one. If I had only known what would be waiting for me when I got here tonight."
He glances at her and sees an obvious feeling of hurt in her face and immediately realizes the thoughtlessness of what he has just said. With war having so unkindly claimed both her brother and his son and living with such sorrowful memories all these years, she just can't let go of the past. He reaches out and places his hand on top of hers and says, "I'm sorry. I....I didn't mean that the way it sounded."
She nods and with something of a less that understanding tone, thoughtfully responds, "You're just a young man, and I don't want to lecture you – especially now. Just try to understand the spoils of war are so many of the things we have all enjoyed for all of our lives. The blessing of living in this country has been defended by many of the people who once lived along this street. I knew them all, and we're heirs of those of the past who gave so much to us in the form of preserving the way of life I'm afraid we now take for granted."
He turns his head away from her, saying," Maybe that's exactly my point. I can't see how what's going on in a small country thousands of miles away has anything to do with the people in America today or those of the past either."
With tears in her eyes, she stands up and pats him on the shoulder. Her voice is trembling as she leaves the room and finally utters, "You might find yourself changing your views on a thing or two just as I have, once you've discovered what you call 'the real world'".
He sits at the table and thinks of everything that has happened this day, which in retrospect, seems more like a month. For the first time, he begins to feel indignant instead of shocked. All those images are tumbling over and over in his mind as though he were trying to awaken from some horrifying nightmare. He can see the old lady he passed on the street in the morning, all those bitter faces along Austin Avenue, Mr. Foote so properly sitting behind his desk and all those men in the elevator who seemed at varying levels of success. He can't get Evette out of his mind. Her lovely smile and large, captivating eyes are ingrained in his memory. He is tormented that he didn't treasure the times they spent together nearly as much as he should. He recalls his mother's telling him sometimes you really don't appreciate something until it's too late. On the other hand, when one is under tension and strain, as he is now, a degree of false emotion is quite natural. And so, his reminiscences of Evette will no doubt remain as they are now. He'll never be really sure how he truly felt about her and even less sure how she felt about him. Who knows what emotions the past has left in her mind?
He walks into the living room, and his eyes fall on the old pictures of Charles and Loren. It's almost as thought they were trying to speak to him with voices long forgotten from another time. The world seems to have dealt so unkindly with some of the heirs to the spoils of war. How else could anyone describe the old lady on the street or even those whores sitting around the bar at the Domino Lounge? In a moment, his mouth begins to tighten, he wads up the napkin in his hand and resentfully utters, "God dammit."