Day Twenty-Four (Tuesday, July 20, 1971)

The house was quiet. Ralph and Betty were at work. My sclera was still completely red and the skin coal black. The swelling was down. My eyelid stayed open, but blinking caused a strain. My lower lip and chin looked better.

When I got back from Dr. Schulman’s, Otto was in his gym suit, doing chinups on a crossbeam in the garage. “See my pack there through the window, Wimpy? My stuff’s all ready to go. I want you to know I’m sick of this town. We’re dyin’ here, sons. Why’d we ever come here in the first place? All I gotta do is lift that pack and I’m gone.”

“The doctor said give it one more day to heal, then the light is green. We leave first thing tomorrow.”

“Don’t blow me over, Dumbo . . . Know what I did yesterday? Jogged out to Hanford Municipal Airport. Got me talkin’ to this pilot who was goin’ south to Bakersfield. He wanted to fly me down for ten bucks. . . . That’s what I shoulda done, left your sorry bum ass behind. I woulda, too, if we didn’t have that policy, you know, about not payin’ for no rides or no lodgin’ . . . We been here three days too long, all because of you.”

“Damn you, George! You’re so anxious to leave? Then go ahead! I’ll meet you in L.A. one week from today. Break up the band. Go ahead. Take a sabbatical. Let’s meet up at the corner of Hollywood and Vine next Tuesday at high noon. C’mon, do you mean what you say? Am I that awful? You want your walking papers that bad?”

“You ain’t never gonna be no negotiator,” Otto said during a walk later that afternoon. “You better stick with menial labor as your occupation, Winans. Because you certainly don’t use your brain.”

“Stop nitpicking! I do my best with whatever I see in front of me. God knows.”

“Does he? You coulda thrown a rock through Duffy’s window, or let out all the air in his tires—caused some kind of havoc to get your revenge. The cops’d give you his address if you said you needed it. I’d be up for a little evil.”

“All those wonderful ideas are for me to execute so I can be left holding the bag. Never you. Right, George?”

“I’m just sayin’, kumquat.”

“Stop lashing out, man! Please. I apologize if my presence diminishes you.”

His carping ended at the library. That’s right, the Hanford Public Library. Books—for the first time in my life—made themselves known. They made their grand debut. Their rollout. That’s where Otto and I defused our agitation and found level ground once again.

Can you believe it? I was honestly browsing for specific books and reading parts of them. Roger Winans, reading. Incredible! I was actually soaking in words with my eyes and digesting the meaning.
Knowing your way around the card catalog was essential. A book on the Levi Strauss Manufacturing Company fascinated me like a movie—removed me completely. Call of the Wild by Jack London held my attention from the fiction section as well. I was blazing through multiple genres.

My excuse about books was lame, I know. But I never comprehended a library before. Its purpose eluded me. Every one always seemed like a museum of paper, with tedious compilations of esoteric details, authoritative to a fault, mostly foreboding and exhausting. But I found out something: If you put in the effort, if you give your honest best, books’ll meet you half way. That was the inspiring part—the interactive process. They called out. Books even smelled good. They felt exciting to handle and touch.

“Hey man, this wasn’t such a bad move. Bonus points to you.” I whispered to Otto from down a dark aisle.

“Just keep readin.’ You can thank me later.”

It didn’t matter that our interests were different—only that we read. Otto liked Civil War books and I found kinship with Dr. Seuss. Later on I caught up to him sitting on a stool, skimming through the history of the West Indies voodoo culture.

“Libraries ain’t so strange.” He finished a chapter and looked up. “They’re meant to be used.”

I gazed down a tall stack. “The only time I read a book was the fifth grade. I did a book report on The Babe Ruth Story.”

“Don’t think nothin’ of it.” Otto straightened his posture, sensing his return to the leadership role. “The library is a good place. There are a lot of good books in the world. What you read adds up. You gotta get your head together in a place like this once in awhile. Otherwise your mind’ll go to seed.”

“True, I prefer to stave off Alzheimer’s Disease.”

“Most words last longer than the author does.”

It was heartening to see all those books down all those aisles, written on every conceivable subject, from abacuses to lighthouses to zoot suits. Each idea came to life by some spark of passion, some special knowledge, and a heck of a lot of persistence. People read those books, learn and gain from them. It was essential to read.

“I’m going to write a book someday if I ever find a subject.”

“Don’t forget to put me in it. Mention this ice cold water fountain, why don’t ya. This sproutin’ stream eased this kid’s dry innards.”

Ralph kept us on the restaurant circuit for dinner. This time we tried Mexican. Though hesitant at first, I finished my spicy hot burrito with a burning stomach.

To douse off, we had dessert at Superior Dairy, a local Hanford landmark since 1929, which served delicious hand-turned ice cream. That soothed my palette and served as the right kind of climax.

My clothes were off and I was just about to get in bed for the night when Betty peeked her head into the bedroom.

“Join me in the kitchen?” Everyone else had gone to bed. I found my aunt leaning against the counter with a Parliament, looking wistful. “Take a seat at that table. If you were twenty-one, I’d mix you a cocktail.”

She had a long, long talk with me. She said it was a pleasure having me come. Her door was open any time I felt like it. Accidents and injuries happen, you never know when. But I was young and healthy and shouldn’t have problems healing.

“Do you really need to go to Los Angeles? They’ve got nothing but snakes in sheep’s clothing down there. They’re shady bastards. Area drips with shysters. That whole movie industry climbs all over each other for a buck. I’d watch my step if you go down there.

“And Tijuana. That’s an awful fucking dirty place. You weren’t planning to go to Mexico, were you?”

“We didn’t bring passports, if that’s what you mean.”

“God forbid. Take it from your dear old aunt—good. There’s fast- talking salesmen on the sidewalks who’ll sell you the shirt off their backs. That’s not your idea of fun, is it? You’ll get sick. You’ll be cussing them out, if not from the water, then from the food. American bellies weren’t built to digest unsanitary food like that. You’ve been through enough trauma for one trip. Stick to our good, laboratory-approved California fruit and vegetables.”

She went back in time. She married too young. Her first husband died of influenza. She fended for herself with little money and family support when she came to California as a single. She talked about her jobs and residences, about Ralph’s charm and courtship. She ran down how she became a member of the Bonsai Club, the Upholstery Club, the Rotary Club Auxiliary, the Methodist Ladies Society.

At the end of two Johnny Walkers and five cigarettes I thought she was going to let me go to bed, but then she poured a third drink and lit a sixth cigarette. I did no talking whatsoever. Betty talked about the new appliances Ralph bought her, the improvements they planned for the house, where they were going on their next vacation, what was on slate for tomorrow. She showed me an old photo album containing pictures of her and my dad as kids. After I pulled away and finally said good night, Betty was getting out a mop and bucket, preparing to scrub the kitchen floor at 12:30 a.m.

“They don’t think I do anything back East, do they?”